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\ HE KILLED A THO

WILLIAM CORCORAN IN A DARING NEW SERIES—
THE CLUE OF THE JUMPING BEAN @

so, LOUIS GOLDING, NORMAN MATSON, EMMA-LINDSAY SQI :

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claimed the Director of the new Good House-
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“An excellent picture,” was their general comment.
“It’s a graphic illustration of a point we dentists are
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Time and again dental science has crusaded against
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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

-.. tender! It's no wonder that “pink tooth brush” is
such a common warning.

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this regularly and the chances are you'll never be
bothered with “pink tooth brush.”

WHY WAIT FOR THE TRIAL TUBE?

Use the coupon below, if you like, to bring you a
trial tube of Ipana. But a trial tube can be, at best,
only an introduction. Why not begin, today, to get
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Kindly send me a trial tube of IPANA TOOTH PASTE.
Enclosed is a 3¢ stamp to cover partly the cost of packing
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City. State.

THE EDITORS PRESENT

APTAIN JOHN AYERS, famous police detective and former
Commander of the Missing Persons Bureau of New York
City, turns dramatist-author, and presents for the first time in any
magazine a series of startling, untold stories of his most thrilling,
unusual adventures.

As head of one of the strangest and most unique departments
in the annals of police history, Captain Ayers, in his sixteen
years of leadership, has dealt with some 350,000 cases of dis-
appearances, covering all sorts of motives, ranging through all
strata of society, from the highest to the lowest. And of these
350,000 cases of voluntary or involuntary disappearance he has
solved 98 per cent—sometimes easily, sometimes with great
difficulty.

One time Governor Al Smith said of him:

“Captain Ayers, whom I have known for over thirty years, is now
in a position to tell some detective stories that are real tales which
will settle for any one the assertion that truth is stranger than
fiction. Captain Ayers has ‘broken’ many of the most baffling mys-
teries which have confronted the police of the world’s largest city,
and his position in command of the Missing Persons Bureau was
unique in police history. His work has brought him widespread
commendation from all parts of the world and his methods of
dealing with missing persons cases have been widely copied by
police departments throughout the United States. Captain Ayers
is a psychologist, analyst, humanitarian and policeman, all in one.”

Frederick L. Patry, M.D., Psychiatrist, State Education Depart-
ment, University of the State of New York, writing in the March,
1934 issue of the Medical Review of Reviews, says of Captain Ayers:

OTHER TOWER MAGAZINES—SERENADE *

“To the psychologically minded, Captain Ayers’ philosophy of
life will ring, with considerable soundness. ‘I live from day to
day and cross no bridges in advance. Cynicism has no place in
my make-up. I strive to be not too distrustful of people, accept-
ing them at face value until something develops which causes: me
to change my opinion, then I deal with the situation accordingly’.”

No police officer, of any rank, or of any day, any place, has been
commended for his work by press and leading periodicals as has
Captain Ayers. He is almost as well known in Europe as in the
United States. d

Now retired from office, Captain Ayers has set about reviewing
in his mind what were his most unusual and interesting cases,
both solved and unsolved during his term of office. He has picked
out several of these, and will tell in thrilling detail the story of
each from his point of view, for the first time in any magazine, for
Mystery Magazine readers! The real inside story, the gripping
human interest drama of the game of eternal hide-and-seek be-
tween unhappy men and women who want to be forgotten, and
the sleepless trailers who won't let them vanish into thin air!

Working with doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, clergymen
and others who are experts on matters of the body and soul, Cap-
tain Ayers has brought to these stories an unusual combination of
human, tender, understanding qualities, aside from his vast
knowledge and practical experience in his world of missing men.
We recommend them to Mystery readers as the finest series. we
have published in many months.

Now that we have introduced Captain Ayers, you will find his
first dramatic story on page 17.

VOL. XIm-NO. E JULY, 1935 MYST ry RY CATHERINE’ MeNELIS, PUBLISHER

NEW MOVIE *

TOWER RADIO : HOME *

COVER DESIGN BY JOHN ATHERTON

ANNOUNCEMENT!

World-Wide Search for a Mystery Character.................2045 44

SPECIAL FEATURES

Guilty by Circumstance...» ss. by Charles Rosenberg, Jr. 4
I :GovSleutbing. 5r soU A DIE rm dS 2 0f
BEST MYSTERY FICTION
Black’ Gatun cscs E E E by Louis Golding 9
The Clue of the Jumping Bean.............. by William Corcoran 12
Osten His Feet. sesa ere eee NT E ESA by Norman Matson 16

VERNE NOLL, Art Director e.

Published monthly by TOWER MAGAZINES, Inc., 4600 Diversey
Avenue, Chicago, Ill. Executive and Editorial Offices: 55 Fifth Avenue,
New York, N. Y^. Home Office: 29 No. Franklin St, Wilkes-Barre, Pa

OFFICERS: Catherine McNelis, President; John P. McNelis, Vice-
President; Theodore Alexander, Treasurer; Marie L. Featherstone,

Pacific Coast Representative.
., New York, N.

Secretary. U.S.A
isi i 5 S P] Advertis- duty, 30c a copy, in foreign countries, $2.00
ing arisen ace (Tile Ubro veli E Budd, subscriptions must be mailed to our New York office. Entered as second-

DURBIN LEE HORNER, Managing Editor 9

ADVERTISING OFFICES: 55 Fifth
ve. ., 919 No. Michigan Ave., Ch
Building, San Francisco, Cal. 7046 Hollywood Blvd., Hollywood, Ca
. S. Pat. [2
Inc, in the United States and Canada. Sul
. $1.00 a year, 10c a copy; in Canada, $2.80 a year, including

The Doctor and the Lunatic................uu by Richard Connell

Tiger: Woman- smerni nnna aen di .by Emma-Lindsay Squier
The Duchess Spots a Killer................ by Whitman Chambers
THE COMPLETE‘ NOVEL
He Killed a Thousand Men...............++. by Harriett Ashbrook
REAL-LIFE MYSTERY
Who Am. 1? 5 nae Ea on tasers ead by Captain John H. Ayers

EXCITING DEPARTMENTS

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class matter September 9, 1933, at the Post office at Chicago, IIl.,
under the Act of March 3, 1879. Printed in U. S. A. Nothing that
appears in THE MYSTERY MAGAZINE may be reprinted either
wholly or in part, without permission. Tower Magazines, Inc., assumes
no responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts, and they will
not be returned unless accompanied by stamped, self-addressed en-
velopes. Authors submitting unsolicited manuscripts assume all risk of
their loss or damage.

icago, IIl.; Russ

Off.) by Tower Magazines
cription .price in the

a year, 20c a copy.

When changing address send us both old and new addresses, and allow five weeks for the first copy to reach you.

NEW ISSUE ON SALE THE FIRST OF EVERY MONTH

AMY VANDERBILT, Director of Home Service

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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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HE District Attorney gesticulated
vehemently.
“And well show you, members

of the jury,” he shouted, “that the body
of this frail woman, dead as a result of
a brutal blow that fractured her skull,
was found on the morning of May four-
teenth lying in the bushes within a few
feet of the Wilson Highway. We'll prove
to you by unimpeachable witnesses that
the defendant's automobile was found
abandoned on the road less than fifty
yards from her body and that the up-
holstery and one of the doors of his car
were stained and smeared red with a
substance found by chemical analysis to
be human blood."

Soundlessly a newspaperman leaned
over the shoulder of the attorney for the
defense.

“How does it sound to you?” the re-
porter asked.

Defense counsel smiled grimly. “I
think he can prove everything he says.”

“Why, that’s admitting that the State
has the case in the bag, and—” the re-
porter pointed out. But the Court's gavel
ended the conversation.

The State's case moved swiftly. Henry
Ames, a milkman, testified to seeing the
abandoned car at about five o'clock in
the morning and reporting it to the near-
est police station. Officer Callahan and
Officer Harris testified that they had gone
out to bring in the car and had noticed
in the nearby bushes the object which
turned out to be the dead woman's body.
The police surgeon who first examined
the body gave it as his opinion that death
had been caused by a severe blow result-
ing in a fracture of the skull. The scalp,
he said, had been badly lacerated and
there had been considerable bleeding.
The official chemist introduced his an-
alysis of the bloodstains found in the
abandoned car.

*George Douglas," called the District
Attorney as the chemist stepped down
from the witness stand. A youth of
about twenty-two seated himself in the
witness chair and was sworn.

“Are you related to Margaret Douglas,
whose death has been testified to here
today?" the District Attorney asked.

“I am her son."

“Were you at the time of your mother's
death or prior thereto acquainted with
William Stewart, the defendant here?"
The District Attorney gestured toward
the defendant's table, where sat a dark-
haired boy no older than the witness.

“Ves. We were classmates at college.”

“Did your mother know him?”

*She became acquainted with him
through me, and he became a regular
visitor at our home."

“Who lived at your home?”

*Just my mother and myself. My
father died some years ago."

The District. Attorney paused before
asking the next question.

*Describe briefly in your own words," he said
at last, “the development of the acquaintanceship
between your mother and this defendant."

Distress and embarrassment flickered across the
youngster's face, but after a moment he began to
speak in an even, unemotional tone.

“My mother and Bill," he said, “quickly became
very friendly, They began going around together
to theaters and public places. I did not like it. I
felt that people would be talking about it. My
mother was very trusting and laughed at me when

behave as they do?

GUILTY

By Circumstance?

CHARLES ROSENBERG, JR.

Member of the Pennsylvania Bar

Tower Studios

Do you know why lawyers, juries and judges
Here is the third of a
series of articles explaining the complicated and
obscure workings of justice. published with the
intention of helping MYSTERY readers to
understand and acquaint themselves with the
peculiar behavior of our American courts

I spoke to her about Bill. She said she was old
enough to be his mother and was simply being
kind to a lonely boy. I felt there was something
unwholesome in Bill's attitude toward my mother,
and I asked him to stop coming to our home and
to stop seeing her. He said that as long as she
was satisfied, it was none of my business. I had a
quarrel with him about it a week or so before my
mother's death."

*How old was your mother?"

“She was forty-four when she died."

With adroit questioning the District Attorney

slowly drew from the boy a startling pic-
ture of a middle-aged mother and her
mildly hectic friendship with her son’s
classmate. -Had the college boy gone too
far in forcing his attentions on the
woman who had meant only to be kind
to him? Had she in her distress and
dismay threatened to tell of things he
had attempted? Had he then decided
that he must silence her by death, and
had he, even while she was reproaching
him as they sat in his automobile on the
lonely highway, carried out his murder-
ous purpose? The State’s case pointed
strongly in that direction.

“Cross-examine,” said the District At-
torney crisply, turning over the witness
to the defense.

“No questions,” announced the attor-
ney for the defense. An audible murmur
of surprise ran through the courtroom.
With swift, incisive questions, the Dis-
trict Attorney disposed of two other
witnesses through whom he proved the
license numbers on the car and the fact
that title to the car was registered in the
name of the defendant.

“The State rests,"
abruptly.

“The defense moves for a directed ver-
dict of acquittal,” stated defense counsel,
rising to address the Court.

“On what ground?”
Court.

“First, there has been no evidence
introduced here tending to connect this
defendant, either directly or indirectly,
with the act that caused death. There
has been no evidence tending to place
this defendant at the scene of the crime
at or near the time of its probable
commission,

“Second, the State’s case is based en-
tirely on circumstantial evidence and
while circumstantial evidence may ad-
mittedly be in some cases far stronger
and far more credible than the testimony
of human witnesses, nevertheless, it is
fundamental in such cases that, to con-
vict, not only must all the circumstances
proved be consistent with the theory that
the accused is guilty, but also inconsis-
tent with the possibility that he is inno-
cent and inconsistent with every other
reasonable theory except that of guilt.
In this case, whether or not the circum-
stances be consistent with guilt, they are
certainly entirely compatible with this
defendant’s innocence.

“Tt is quite possible that this car could
have been stolen off the street by un-
known persons, who might either have
murdered this unfortunate woman or
killed her by accident and to disguise
their own guilt abandoned the car and
left her body where it was found. But
for the purposes of this case, it is un-
necessary to speculate on how the woman
died. The plain fact is that there is
nothing to connect the defendant with
the crime, if there was a crime, and no proof that
there was any connection between his car and the
manner in which she met her death. The blood-
stains in the car have no necessary or inevitable
bearing on the killing of the deceased. There is no
circumstance proved by the State tending to show
that this defendant was in or near the car at the
time of the victim’s death or that he was remotely
connected with her death in any way.”

The Judge turned to the District Attorney.

“I think there is merit in the defense argument,”
he said slowly. “The law (Please turn to page 68)

he announced

inquired the

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935 5

A REAL DEPARTMENT FOR MYSTERY READERS

The Scourge Impressed

PIEDMONT, CALIF.—Needless to say I enjoy
Mystery MAGAZINE, as I am on my second year's
subscription. I prefer book-length novels to con-
tinued stories, because, as each new number arrives,
it means review the last month's, before I can get
the connection.

While I am fond of mystery stories, I also greatly
enjoy Whitman Chambers’ Press Room series.

The plots are clever and reasonable. The dia-
logue, vivid, with caustic banter, is very amusing,
because I know it is not exaggerated.

I hope to read more of them.

To my notion, “The Dead Don’t Waken” by
Belden Duff was the best mystery story in the May
number. Also was impressed by John P. Fred-
erick’s “Are American Homes Threatened by
China's Scourge?”

Mrs. H. F. Strother

To the Point

PORT HURON, MICH.—In my opinion Mvs-
TERY MAGAZINE is about all that one could desire
in a magazine. The type is large enough to be read
easily, and the variety of stories and departments
should please everyone.

I always read the *I Go Sleuthing" department,
first. I also like the short stories.

“The Affair on the Roof" by C. Daly King, was
excellent.

I also like the special features. “Health Swin-
dlers" by D. E. Wheeler was worth more than the
price of the magazine. I do not care for the serials,
guess I haven't enough patience to bother with
them.

Mary Nagle Kenney

Our Morals

LANSING, MICH.—I have a brother thirteen
who enjoys reading more than any other recreation.
I have bought many detective magazines (those
being the kind he likes most), for him to read.
Glancing through them I found they were very
unmoral for anyone to read, let alone a boy as
young as he is. One day he brought home the
Mystery MacaziNE. They are good clean stories.
I myself enjoy them very much and so too does my
mother.

I do hope you print this to let others know what
one of your readers thinks of the moral tone of
your magazine.

Mrs. Roy Culham

A Combination

NEW YORK, N. Y.—I’ve just discovered Mys-
TERY. The May number was so good that I’ve
already become an addict. If you can get more
stories like Q. Patrick's “Darker Grows the Valley”
your publication will be a world beater. Q. Patrick
seems to be one of the few writers who can com-
bine a good thriller with good characterization and
good style.

Robert E. Turner

A Difference of Opinion

BROOKLYN, N. Y.—I am
going to give you a good talking
to. For over a year I have been
reading the Mystery Magazines,
and enjoying them, but never in
all my days did I ever read such
a rotten issue as the May one.

It seemed to contain all of the
old, old stuff that I thought I

tery writer is.

had gotten away with by not purchasing other de-
tective magazines.

Your “Little Book of Strange Crimes” and “I
Go Sleuthing” columns (pages I should say), are
marvelous. Keep up the good work. But for good-
ness sakes, please get some decent stories; don’t
just pick any stories that are handed in, but go to
the trouble of sorting them and picking out the best.

Write your opinions and suggestions for Mystery MAGAZINE every
month. Tell us what story you like best—who your favorite mys-
For every letter published we will pay one dollar.

And, remember, if you don’t like this magazine, be frank and say
so! Write to the Mystery Editor, Tower Magazines, Inc., 55 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N. Y.

There are a few suggestions that I would like to
make, but of course you say, just like a woman.
But here goes.

1. Get some of the stories that you used to have,
you remember them certainly—in the good old
days.

2. Have some of those fantastic stories that we
know never happen but which all readers love to
read about.

3. And last but not least keep up the standard of
Mystery Macazine by listening to your readers
and using your own judgment.

In conclusion, Gentlemen, I say:

I've bought your magazine.

I've read your magazine.

I've here written just what I think of your
magazine.

Now publish a better one next month.

Miss V. Nagin

A Capitalist

OWENSBORO, KY.—I am not writing for the
dollar you offer, but this is my honest opinion of the
MYSTERY MAGAZINE.

It is, without a doubt, the best mystery maga-
zine on sale today.

TThe only criticism I have to offer is that the
Mystery MacaziNE should be weekly and not
monthly. :

I thoroughly enjoyed “Her Husband’s Guilt” by
Beldon Duff, and “The Case of the Rigid Man” by
Helgo Walters in the April issue.

Please print more stories like these.

Joseph Nall

Golly!

CHICAGO, ILL.—Six months after MYSTERY
MAGAZINE was published, I gave it up, I guess the
photography got me—also the stories were getting
weak.

Seven months ago I decided to chance it again,
and realized how unjust I had been to both the
magazine and myself.

Your book-length mysteries are great, “The
Woman Who Lived Too Long” and “Murder Mad-
ness"; golly, those stories alone surpassed my ex-
pectations, and the photography now is worth
framing.

I am very much satisfied with everything you
publish. Think you're great for giving us Theodore
Dreiser.

Don’t care for serials, but others might—so one
wouldn’t hurt.

As far as I’m concerned I know we'll be to-
gether. If ever I miss a copy of TOWER MYSTERY
MAGAZINE it is going to be June in January.

Ray E. Block

No More Line-Up

MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.—Is it absolutely es-
sential to the future existence of Mystery Maca-
ZINE to continue such an uncharming column as
your “Line-Up”?

To me, as a reader, what does it matter
that So and So found something not in keeping
with his or her reading tastes
within the covers of your peri-
odicals?

That is the other person's pri-
vate opinion.

But, Americans love to give
vent to their mental labors, and
“push them," so to speak down
the throats of the several editors
of this nation.

*Are American Homes Threat-
ened (Please turm to page 86)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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, | AHE black cat with the white

arrow appeared out of nowhere.

He appeared in the school-room
one gusty March day. Jill and Miss
Derwen, her governess, were going
down to tea, when Jill’s mother called
out from the drawing-room which was
off the half-landing. Mrs. Heathcote
wanted to speak to Miss Derwen for a
moment; -would she please come in.
Miss Derwen concluded from the tone
of Mrs. Heathcote’s voice that the thing
she wanted to speak about was not for
Jill’s ears.

“Go down to the school-room, dar-
ling,” said Miss Derwen. “Tl be down
at once.”

So Jill tripped down the rest of the
staircase into the nursery. She was a
rather prim little girl and she closed the
door behind her primly. It was so wet
and blowy that only one of the windows
was open and only for two or three
inches; but even these few inches of
March air made a draught and clatter
during the few seconds the door was
open. So Jill closed the door behind
her.

She sat down at the tea-table where
tea was laid for Miss Derwen and her-
self, expecting Miss
in a moment or two.
or two prolonged themselves into a
minute or two, during which Jill had
ample time to look round. If there had
been a black cat with a white arrow in
the room, she would have noticed him
then; unless he had got under the low
chintz-covered sofa against the long
wall, as he might have done. But there
was, in fact, precious little room there,
for all the toys and boxes of games that
could not be stuffed into the cupboard
were stacked under the sofa.

So Jill got up after a couple of

minutes and went over to the window
and stood there with her nose flattened
against the pane, looking out on to the
dripping grass and the straining trees.
'Then she turned round again, because
she felt someone else was in the room
besides herself. It was not Miss Derwen,
for she had not heard any door open
or close, and besides, you could, usually
hear Miss Derwen coming downstairs.
for she was rather heavy-footed.

Jill was not alone in the room. There was a
black cat on the tea-table. She noticed the little
white arrow on his chest almost the very moment
she noticed the cat himself. It looked like the
white bow that her father wore when special people
came to dinner and he put on the long black jacket,
too. But it was a little lower down than that. The
cat stood firmly arched on the table, lapping away
at the milk-jug.

Jill was conscious of a slight sense of outrage.
Her mother had had a tortoise shell cat until a few
months ago, and it was so well-behaved it would
rather have starved than jump on the table and
lap the milk out of the milk-jug, at all events if
there was a chance that anybody might be looking.
Jill and the tortoise shell cat had never cared for
each other very much, really. And then they had
two terriers. Jill liked them much more than the
tortoise-shell, and they were models of good be-
havior, too. Her mother and Miss Derwen between
them saw that everybody in the house, human and
animal, behaved with decorum.

That was one reason why Jill felt a little shocked

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Jill realized that if she
screamed and tore her
hair now, she would go
irrevocably mad.

BLACK
CAT

A horror story of nightmare visions and
breath-taking wizardry! A story that

doesn’t end—and one you won't believe

By LOUIS GOLDING

when she saw the black cat with the white arrow
lapping the milk out of the milk-jug. It was all
the more irregular because the cat wasn’t even an
inhabitant. He was a stranger. He had come
out of nowhere.

She was shocked another way, too. The black
cat looked so lovely, Jill almost stopped breathing
for a moment. Her mother had a grand evening
gown made out of black velvet, but the fur of the
black cat was smoother and richer and silkier. The
tongue was like a piece of coral, it made you want
to jump it was so pretty. And the next moment
you did not want to jump at all. The black cat
looked up and he had green eyes like the grass out-
side the window with the rain on it. He looked

up and looked at you steadily for two seconds, then
he looked down at the milk-jug again and started
lapping. You did not want to jump any more. You
just wanted to stand there, and wait and wait, till
he lifted his head and looked at you again.

Then Miss Derwen opened the door and came
in. It showed that Jill had been thinking of the
cat very hard, how lovely it was, and how pretty its
tongue was, for she always heard Miss Derwen
about the house. Miss Derwen did not walk softly,
and the boards creaked all over the place.

“Oh, Miss Derwen!” said Jill. "Look!"

“Good gracious me!" said Miss Derwen. “A
cat! The milk! Shoo!" she said.

“Oh no!" cried Jill. “It’s lovely!”

'The cat lifted his head and stared at Miss
Derwen. Then he stared at Jill again. He did not
move from the table.

“T never heard of such a thing!” said Miss
Derwen. “Shoo!” she cried again, and advanced a
step. or two toward the table, and made a flapping
movement with her hands. The cat straightened
himself and stood for a moment four-square on the
ebony pillars of his legs. Then he drew together for
a spring and with infinite delicacy and precision
bounded across the plate of bread and butter on to
the sofa. There was a cushion there, Jill’s cushion.
She could not remember the time when she had not
had that cushion. She preferred it to all her dolls,
for it was a great deal more versatile. It could be
a doll on demand, a railway-train, a magic carpet.
It was also quite useful as a cushion, too. The
black cat walked the few inches remaining to Jill's
cushion and then took possession of it, as if it had
always been intended for him. He squatted down
on his haunches, passed his quick tongue round his
mouth, then looked at Jill again, not so much at her
eyes as at her mouth, as if he would understand
what she said about him from the way her lips
worked.

It was actually Miss Derwen who spoke next, but
he took no notice of her. “However did you get
into the room?" asked Miss Derwen. "Where did
he came from? We shall have to get some more
milk!"

"He's a Fairy Prince!" cried Jill, dancing about
in her excitemnt, and clapping her hands. “He’s a
Fairy Prince! He didn't need to have to get into
the room!"

“No doubt!" said Miss Derwen. She went and
tugged at the bell-pull. “No doubt!" She was an-
noyed. She did not like the cat. You never know
where cats have been and what they might bring in
with them. He had been well-looked after, cer-
tainly, for his coat was in excellent condition. But
he had been badly brought up. His manners were
deplorable. Jumping up like that on to the table
and lapping the milk out of the jug! She didn’t
like the way he looked at you, either, or rather,
didn't look at you. He ignored you as if he knew
you were not a lady, you were just a nursery-
governess. It was very amusing and fanciful of the
child, of course, to call the animal a Fairy Prince.
You were responsible for it yourself, in a way. You
were always making up tales along those lines for
the child's entertainment. But the animal looked
so haughtily pleased with himself to hear himself
called a Prince to his face, it was really quite exas-
perating. Miss Derwen nearly tore the bell-pull off
its wires.

“More milk!" she commanded. Doris nearly
gave notice on the spot for being talked to like that
by that Miss Derwen.

“Oh you lovely, you lovely!” Jill muttered in the
black cat’s ear, her arm flung round his body.
"Where did you come írom, lovely? Are you
really a Fairy Prince, really and truly?"

HE black cat with

Jill had said to the white arrow
Bennett: “I don't made no reply for a
want to know how minute or so. He merely
or where you'll sat and purred as if he
drown it—so long were nothing more at all
as it gets done be- than a black cat. Then
fore tomorrow he put out his delicate
morning." rough tongue and passed

it two or three times over Jill's cheek-bone. But
Jill did not need that confirmation. She did not
ask because she wanted to know. She wanted to let
him know she knew. He was a Fairy Prince, over
whom some wicked magician had waved his wand
and made a black cat out of him. Some day a good
magician would appear on the scene and wave an-
other wand over him. He would become a Fairy
Prince again, and on that day he would marry her.

After tea Jill always spent half-an-hour or so
alone with her mother in the drawing-room. On this
particular afternoon the black cat was with them,
too. Mrs. Heathcote lifted her eyebrows grimly
when Jill entered, with the animal sprawled across
her outstretched arms. Someone had already told
herabout the intruder, and orders had already been
given that it was to be unceremoniously shooed out
of the house. But when Jill informed her with such
simplicity and seriousness that the' cat was not
merely a Prince but her destined bridegroom, it
seemed advisable to hold up the expulsion for an
hour or two. She discussed the matter with her hus-
band when he came in later that evening. Mrs.
Heathcote felt that Miss Derwen should be recom-
mended to keep fairy stories out of the child's cur-
riculum for the future. They filled her head with
stuff and nonsense. They also agreed that strange
cats are hygienically undesirable and the visitor
must be quietly discouraged in a day or two, if he
had not slipped off on his own account in the mean-
time.

But the black cat did not slip off within the next
day or two; and he really was a creature of such
grace and beauty that it was difficult to believe he
was a walking disease-carrier. Moreover, the child
was head over heels in love with hinr* He was her
Prince, she would one day marry him. He became
as much a member of the establishment as Miss
Derwen, who compromised herself with a visiting
tennis champion and disappeared only a month or
two later.

For several years Jill Heathcote maintained her
belief quite unquestioningly in the identity of her
black cat and the fate that one day was to bind
them in holy wedlock.: The belief survived the
Santa Claus legend and the stork legend, and even
stories like Alfred burning the cakes became a little
fly-blown for her before she allowed herself to
accept the heart-breaking truth that the black cat
was not really a Fairy Prince but actually a black
cat.

She got up one morning, being about eleven years
old. Something had happened inside her during the
night. When gray dawn came she had become a
gray rationalist. With the tears streaming down
her cheeks, she leaned over toward the cat, who
lay, as usual, stretched across the foot of her bed
with his four legs thrust straight before him, more
like a dog than a cat. The cat opened his green
eyes.

“No, darling, no!" she sobbed. "You're not!
I've known it for a long time now. You're only a
black cat, after all. But I love you just the same.
Do you understand, darling? It makes no differ-
ence at all. I love you just the same."

The black cat made no reply, of course, for he
was only a black cat. He lifted his head, as he had
a habit of doing when Jill talked. to him, and
yawned lengthily. Then he put his head back on to
the counterpane and closed his eyes.

He disappeared next day. Wringing her hands,
and sobbing bitterly, Jill went calling after him all
over the house and the garden, day after day. But
he did not hear her, or, if he did, he paid no atten-
tion. He did not come back again.

Or, at least, not for a long time.

AE the black cat's disappearance, Jill
Heathcote stopped being a rationalist for a
year or two, though she had been a rationalist for
only a day and a couple of nights. She relapsed
into an almost savage superstitiousness again,
though she was getting to be quite a big girl now,
and would be going to boarding-school quite soon.
She was convinced that she had herself driven her
darling into the cold dark outer world by her
wicked scepticism, and it certainly looked like it.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

For a year or so she was more than ever convinced
that the cat was a Fairy Prince, though she had
the gravest doubts that he would now agree to make
her his Princess, after the way she had treated him.
She was really a thoroughly sensible girl in most
other respects, but she retained her fantasy for
quite a long time, without letting anyone in the
world suspect it. She even hid it from herself, or
at least, from the greater part of her mind. The
smaller part of her mind hung on like grim death.
She was about fifteen years old by the time she
could see a black cat without examining it ner-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

vously to see whether it wore a little white tie or
not. A year or so later she could bring herself to
tell her friends the story of the black cat that had
come and gone, and to laugh at it as heartily as
other girls. But she laughed a shade too heartily
perhaps. There was a certain shrillness in her
laughter.

ISS DERWEN used to say while Jill was
quite a small girl that Jill had a beautiful
voice and something ought to be done with it.
When Miss Derwen left, Jill’s voice was forgotten

The cat looked at Jill
as if he would under-
stand what she was
saying from the way
her lips worked.

“Where did you come
from, lovely?” mur-
mured Jill. “And are
you really and truly
a Fairy PrinceP”

and it was only reme d again during her last
year or two at school. It had been left to grow
wild, like a garden, but it suddenly put on a beauty
that astonished and even irritated her mother.
After she had been at home about a year, Jill was
sent to study singing in a very special little college
of music in Knightsbridge and she had a room in
a very special hostel for nice girls. She did well at
the college and got one or two important parts in
the rather severe little operas they performed for
the Knightsbridge intelligentsia once or twice a
year. (Please turn to page 69)

THE CLUE OF THE
JUMPING BEAN

In response to Mystery readers’ demands for the return of their favorite

authors, the editors present this thrilling new detective series by William

Corcoran, creator of “Mark Harrell, the Taxi Detective.” Mr. Corcoran

is one of America’s youngest and most successful authors, and these

new, dramatie stories in which Max Bradley, the handsome super-sleuth

plays the leading role, represent Mr. Corcoran at his best. We announce
—MAX BRADLEY, dashing, two-fisted, Special Agent of the Department
of Justice, in his fights against erime.

E had driven through night and through

W dawn. I had the wheel, and Max Bradley

dozed beside me. The pace was terrific,
for we rode, so to speak, with Death. The car was
a Dusenberg, and a number of times the needle
touched one hundred miles per hour. —

It was about ten A. M. when we were arrested.
This misadventure was for me at the time a wholly
unaccountable proceeding, with sinister overtones.
But Max Bradley's highly eccentric way of han-
dling emergencies has always been beyond pre-
dictability.

As we crossed the line into Culver County, West
Virginia, the Shenandoah range lay remote and
mysterious behind us and to the south, and the
country was broken and irregular but lovely in
the morning with the green of Spring. Elsewhere
many of the little valleys were marred by a sprawl
of drab bituminous workings and impoverished
miners! settlements, but right here the scenery was
unblemished. On the outskirts of the little rural
town of Gentry, the end of our journey, we ran
into a rough stretch of highway undergoing repair.
I slowed, of course, and Max roused as we bumped
over a washboard of unsettled rubble.

“Welcome to Gentry!” he murmured sardon-
ically. “It’s a good thing you didn't hit this last
night at your customary mad speed, Tommy Tor-
rence.” Then, in a changing tone, “Well, well—
what can this be?”

It was a police officer of some sort; he came out
of concealment among the bushes alongside the
highway at a bound, capering ,threateningly, com-
manding us to halt.

“These country slickers!” Max sighed. “A per-
fect speed trap, all right, and they’re not letting

it go to waste. Pull up. TIl handle -him."

Now I had seen Max work magic on the three
suddenly deferential motorcycle officers who had
chanced to overtake us during the night. Max, as
a “G” man—Special Agent, Division of Investiga-
tion, Department of Justice—was as impressive a
person to cop as to criminal. Lean and military,
tanned, gray-eyed, casually urbane in expensive
English cut suits, Max had the command of others
that comes of thirty-seven years of crowded living
and much leadership of lesser man. An extraor-
dinary person, Max Bradley: trained in law; he
was soldier, adventurer, gentleman, and a suave and
expert detective.

Last night Washington had summoned him from
New York by long distance to look into a cer-
tain matter of homicide in a hill country section
of West Virginia. Murders are ordinarily outside
the Federal jurisdiction, but this was no common
murder; powerful names and countless millions and
even, perhaps, international amity were at stake.
Without a qualm Max had commandeered my car
and myself.for the swift journey. We were of old
acquaintance, and my e means and. consider-
able leisure were generally at his disposal.

The officer, probably a town constable, was a
heavy, hulking fellow with small eyes and beefy
nose and lips. He put a foot on the running board
and roared into my ear. His grievance, with oaths,
was—reckless driving.

I laughed; I could not help it. It was Max who
politely demurred. The officer cursed him. Max
protested, still poisonously calm and reasonable.
I knew the tone, yet I was taken by»surprise when
Max, instead of identifying himself and reducing
the man to sudden silence, said abruptly in a tone

WILLIAM CORCORAN

Bradley stripped the sheet from the body.
“Mackinson—is this the body of your wife?”

of freezing command, “Will you be so kind as to
remove your hand from that door!”

The officer glared. “Who the hell do you think
you're talking to? You're not in New York, now,
by Judas!” he added. You're drunk!”

"Possibly. Possibly we both are. But you're in
uniform. I’m not!"

“The two of you are drunk!” bellowed the con-
stable. “Get away from that wheel. I'm taking
you in."

And so we were taken in. Max did not object
further; he looked dryly philosophic, even antici-
pative. I had nothing to say, either way.

We were led into a small frame office on the
main street of Gentry. The window lettering pro-
claimed this the court of Joel Loveland, Justice of
the Peace. He proved to be a thin, gangling, dys-
peptic individual, black and thin of hair and dry of
eye. He had an early visitor, a large, powerful,
swarthy man of forty or so who lounged beside the
desk with a lowering, truculent air of privilege and
power, His eyes were bright, yet looked dead, like
shoe buttons. This, I learned in time, was John
Skyras, bullying, ambitious, the ruthless boss of
the town and sinister contestant for the political
power of the county.

Max muttered, “Watch my play. Back me if
necessary." So I let him step up to the desk to
face the music. He stood there, scrutinizing in
calm absorption the two men, while the officer
related our wrongdoing to the court.

“T spied them coming down the long grade from
Pine Ridge. I timed them, and I calculate they
were doing sixty. They were proceeding in a.very
reckless manner. I suspect they are under the
influence of intoxicating liquor. They tried to resist
arrest and I had to use force to bring them here."

“Sixty,” repeated Judge Loveland with relish.
“Drunk and resisting an officer. Go on.”

Max drawled, “The man's blind or a liar."

Loveland looked at him. “You'll keep your
mouth shut until you're told to talk!"

“Or else a fool," Max went on. “We were doing
eighty-seven on the grade.”

Loveland sat stiff, his face dark with | anger.
Skyras Stared with an evil gleam in his Buddha-like
gaze; occasionally he reached in a pocket and
cracked a small nut between his fingers, tossing
the kernel in his mouth and dropping the tiny
shells, I had learned from Max to observe hands;
these had blunt, powerful, cruel fingers, with dark
heavy nails bitten or broken down to the quick.
He grunted and said in a rasping tone with alien
accent, “Eighty-seven is more better, bet you my
life! Let him have it, Joel. He's asking for it,
sure."

The judge obeyed. ‘Eighty-seven, eh? Well, Pm
mighty glad to learn. I’m going to fine you a dollar
for every mile. You'll settle up or go to jail!”

Max shrugged. “You can’t fine me. I wasn't
driving the car."

Judge Loveland looked nonplussed, then he
fixed his vindictive gaze on me. The diversion
quite suited Max's purpose.

Smoothly, deftly, Max reached for the .45 Army
automatic he carried always in a shoulder holster,
and quietly, but so very convincingly he urged,
“Be very still for a moment, please—all of you!”

He had them cornered, speechless, impotent. He
smiled, in a peculiar, dangerous way. I waited for
him to deliver a scathing lecture and disclose who
he was. Instead he strolled up to the officer, who
stood dumbstruck, plucked the revolver from his
side holster and tossed it through an open window.

“This shakedown is too baldfaced to go any
further,” he drawled. “I was curious to see how
far you’d go, but this ceases to be amusing. It’s
too damned stupid!”

Max removed a revolver he found in Skyras’ hip
pocket. The big man stood fast by his chair, his
face gorged with rage. Max found another gun in
the judge’s desk. He threw both weapons out. The
judge cowered in his chair, his complexion the
color of mud.

“Now then,” said Max, "we'll reverse this. How

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

‘Tower Studios

MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

much have you collected lately, e? Where do
you keep it? In the drawer?

Max opened the drawer immediately before the
justice, who choked and said nothing. It was a
loose, thick wad of bills that Max thrust into a
coat pocket—five hundred dollars it proved to be.
Max’s interest was taken by something else in the
drawer. He picked up half a dozen small brown
nuts, tossed them back; picked up a sheet of paper
on which a crude circle had been drawn with a
pencil, frowned and replaced it. Then he smiled
slightly, kicked a chair up to a corner of the desk
and sat down.

“Get out your gun and cover them, Tommy,” he
commanded.

I obeyed. Max put down the automatic and
wrote several lines on a blank sheet of paper.

* You'll sign that, please," he said crisply, offer-
ing the paper to Loveland.

The judge took the paper, rattled it, protested
vehemently.

Max repeated sweetly, viciously, “You'll sign it,
please!”

“It’s worthless! Pll sign under duress, but it's
worthless."

“Sign it and get it over with," said Max, bored.

He stared at Skyras.
Mackinson was Following Loveland,
dazed, speech- Skyras and the officer were
less, nerve- called on to witness the
racked. paper, Skyras read it,

I peered over Bradley's shoulder—and beheld Mrs. Clapper inside the dead woman's bedroom.

glared at Max with glittering venom, and abruptly
scrawled a signature. The constable, flushed and
sweating, signed without reading.

This constitutes a lesson on common decency,”
Max explained. “This document is simply an ac-
knowledgment for value received. y fee is high,
so I have to insist on it."

Throatily, as a man might vow deadly personal
vengeance, Skyras cursed. “You are not going to
get away with this, I bet you my life! I tell you,
and you can count on that."

A moment later, at Max's direction, I was out
behind the wheel of the Dusenberg, ready for flight.
There were few people on the street; none paid
any attention when Max walked quickly out of the
office. We were speeding and out of sight around
a corner in half a second.

Then I said explosively, “For ’s sake, man!"

Max laughed. He had enjoyed himself. “We’ll
mail the cash anonymously to the county hospital.
That gang of clumsy highbinders? It was impos-

> to resist.”

But they'll have us picked up, with the Indian
sign on us!"

“Keep going and keep cool. We're bound for
Cedar Hill, and the hill lies a mile beyond the
town. We'll be safe and out of sight.”

He was right. In a moment we gained the im-
posing entrance to-the manorial estate called Cedar
Hill, a property of the magic Mackinsons who had
reared an empire of Steel (Please turn to page 50)

KATHERINE

KAREY

Above, left to right: BINNIE BARNES, Univer-
sal star, to appear next month in “Diamond Jim,”
sports this monotone stripe shirtwaist dress of
Tropical silk. It’s made for action, has plenty
of pockets, youthful raglan sleeves and col-
lar. Won't shrink or fade, is grand for city or
country. Binnie likes this type of outfit, for she
picked a second one, also above. This one is al-
most better than her first choice, because it has a
two-piece effect that’s really a peplum, and for
plumper gals it’s very flattering. This dress is
washable, non-shrinkable, Tropical silk, too, and
has an action tailored back and skirt, two pockets
and golf-length sleeves. Another dress that can
go almost anywhere. Seated, is her choice for
evening, a mousseline de soie with a tux-cut jacket,
oo-la-la sleeves and a big flower of the same mate-

rial. And her next new dress is of cotton net with
trick pleating, shirred pockets and a piqué flower.

Opposite page, left to right: DOROTHY MAC.
KAILL wears this simple printed chiffon after-
noon dress with the new waistline gathering, remi-
niscent of the Princess era. Note the high cowl
neckline, pretty on anyone, and the softly draped,
cape-like sleeves. And then she picks a washable
pastel that will walk away with the town. Its col-
lar has contrasting stripes and the belted jacket
has flared, elbow-length sleeves. Her next selec-
tion is another print for afternoon. It clings snugly
at the hipline and concentrates attention on the
wide banded sleeves. Try her tailored satin on
your best beau. It’s simple enough for any hour,
but manages to give you a nice, dressed-up feeling.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

TOWER STAR

Try the stars’ wardrobes and
yow'll get your man with a fine
flourish—on a small budget

TOWER

Star

FASHIONS

QU OG?

DAC GE!
(y

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935 15

HEN Christopher Coghlan woke up
that morning he did not open his

eyes. He lay there in his own dark-
O M É O N H | | 3 F E E T ness. He did not have a headache.

Coghlan wondered: “Am I in New York?

What time—what day is it?”
E s Once, that time after winning acquittal for
A Short Romantic Thriller by NORMAN MATSON Bill Jim Ewen, he had started a Party that
had gone away as last night's party had gone
away and when he woke up he was in Detroit
bound for church. Another time—well, no
point in piling up the detail.

Coghlan, enormously successful, six feet
two and handsome, too handsome with black
hair and blue eyes, but his big careless laugh
saved him—blarneyed by nature, full of luck,
striding the world, scattering his money but
earning more and more of it—Coghlan drank
like three men when he got started, sometimes
kept at it for days. Big men can take it:
they have more room, for one thing. Coghlan
had never staggered in his life. Long range
drinking only made his eyes brighter, his
glance swifter—suggestion of fever—he
laughed a bit more; that was all. Nothing
happened to him except this business of draw-
ing a blank occasionally. But they’ were
pretty serious. They were very blank blanks.
That Detroit experience for example—for the
life of him he couldn’t find the shred of a
memory about the trip out there. In his
pockets he found cards of people whose names
meant not a thing to him, theater ticket stubs,
other odds and ends, but none succeeded in
unlocking his memory. Weeks later he re-
ceived letters brimming with gratitude from a
deserving fellow he had apparently lavishly
aided. One good thing about it was that
Coghlan seemed to turn fairly angelic, rather
than the reverse, when he took too much

So last night he had gone to the Osbornes,
prepared for a lousy time. He didn't like
Osborne, who was rich and idle, an evil man.
Why had he gone? Because Beth Harriman
was going. And so he hadn't, they hadn't,
had a lousy time. Far from it. They’d had
a glorious time. He’d made an extemporane-
ous speech to a champagne glass that he pre-
tended was a microphone, answering all the
big-mouthed heroes at once—in a speech de-
signed to end all speeches. Lord, how they'd
laughed. All but Osborne. Osborne was in
love with Beth Harriman now. Doctor
George Searles Fulton had made a sneering
jest about that. There was another evil one
—Fulton, that sadist! What a crowd they
were, come to think about it—“society
people.” Bores or crooks, filled with envy
and hatred.

It was refreshing to think of Beth Harri-
man. She was a very tall woman, crowned
with great rolls of bronze hair. She had a
deep voice—large hands—white and graceful
though. She was a queen, all right—a woman
of powerful will, her manner direct. She had
told Chris Coghlan how she felt—and that
was ambrosia for his ego—it scared him, too.
“Chris,” she had said, “I love you with all I’ve
got—with my heart and my flesh and every
thought. It’s insanity. All night in my
dreams; all day in my thoughts.. I need your
franchise to eat, to exist, to laugh, to cry. I
go around like a sleep walker. The time you
touched my hand first, that night I kissed my
own hand. I slept with it under my cheek
because that way I almost touched you. I
tried to remember what the word pride, the
word shame means; I've lost 'em, so what?"
So he kissed her and thought she was mar-
velous—and decided to remain a bachelor—
free, his own boss. He wouldn't be if he
married her.

J t Here Chris Coghlan opened his eyes. Yes,

Tower Studios he was in his own bed, an enormous bed it
was; and he was in it by himself, and all the

All Chris wanted to do was state a fact, give Beth one. plain word instead spacious, panelled room was as it should

of the horror of silence. be. . . . So he (Please turn to page 74 )

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Presented for the first time in any magazine
—a thrilling series of his own true adventures
—one of the most famous police-detectives of
all time writes his first stories exclusively for
Mystery Magazine—unknown, untold, thrill-
ing, heart-throbbing stories—told by the man

who knows—

By Capt. JOHN H. AYERS

Former Commander of the Missing Persons Bureau of New York

HO am I?" he asked himself
groggily.
Through the haze of a strange

sleep from which he slowly awakened, the
man in the waiting-room of the vast Penn-
sylvania Railroad terminal in New York
looked about him and saw men and women
coming and going, but they were like
shadows in a dream, and the place he was
Captain - in was utterly unfamiliar to him.

John H. Ayers *How did I get here?" he wondered.

It was night. The lights were on. A
clock's hands pointed to eight-forty. But at what time he
sat down on the bench, the man didn't know. Everything
was blotted out that had happened prior to this awakening.
It was like being born again.

“God!” he muttered. “What does it mean?”

And he looked at his.clothes which weré fearfully rum-
pled and soiled, and felt his cheeks which were covered
with a growth of stubble.

A porter eyed him threateningly.

“You better git goin’, bo!" he said.

The man felt dismayed, lost in a cloud of bewilderment.
Attempting to reply to the employe, he discovered that his
throat and tongue were like sandpaper. Rising to his feet
and walking with difficulty, he went to a drinking fountain.
His muscles were stiff and sore, as if he had been in one
position for a long time.

People in passing gave him suspicious glances. He looked
like a tramp, acted like a drunk, but there was an air of
refinement about him, and a certain appealing pathos, too.

As a matter of fact, the man staggered because of great
physical shock and hunger, not because of liquor or any
drug. After gulping five cups of water—he had never been
so thirsty—he sought out the porter who had told him to
move on.

“Say,” he said, “this is a railroad station, isn't it?”

The porter grinned from ear to ear.

“Golly, that’s a good one to ask in the biggest railroad
station in the world! What's the idea, bo?”

Fhctogeap iss by The man didn’t see the humor of the situation.

“Please tell me where the restaurant is,” he said.

Still chuckling, the porter gave him directions.

“But you better go to the bean-wagon or the Automat,”
he advised, judging from the man’s appearance that he was
down to a few cents.

When the stranger entered the railroad restaurant, so
bedraggled and unshaven, they evidently felt the same way
as the porter. Bums were not in the habit of dining there.
However, there was something in this man’s manner—and
on closer inspection his clothes (Please turn to page 84)

Verne Noll-Tower Studios

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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935 17

old Matthew Kelton came out of his salt-

box house to potter for at time in his rose-
garden while his cook was crisping the breakfast
bacon. Below in the peaceful valley he could see
the little white village’ of Mallow drowsing beside
its silver-green strip of river, and he could see
looming dimly in the distance the beginnings of the
Berkshires; but it was the immediate landscape
that interested Matthew Kelton just then, his roses,
and particularly one rose. For forty years raising
roses had been his hobby, and he had won many
blue ribbons; but he had never grown, nor, indeed,
ever seen a more magnificent specimen than this
perfect and beautiful flower which had come to
grace his garden.

“Nature,” he told his wife, “has performed a
miracle. I worked many years to produce a rose
like this but the best I grew fell short of my dreams.
Then this one happened—a new variety—happened
as mysteriously as the birth of a genius. This is a
—well, I should call it a Shakespeare among roses.” ,

He hurried across his garden toward this paragon which
was isolated from the common blooms by a wire fence. Be-
hind his glasses his blue eyes beamed with excited pride. Then
he stopped abruptly and gave a short, shocked cry. His
rose was gone.

It was not gone entirely, though. It had been ripped up by
the roots, its stem had been broken into a dozen pieces, and
the flower itself had been torn to shreds. The fragments lay
inside and all around the crushed wire cage, and they had
been trampled and ground into the dirt.

“Martha!” cried Kelton, and there was a sob in his voice.
*Martha, come here."

His wife hurried from the house. He could not say any-
thing. He could only point with a trembling finger.

*Oh, Matthew, how awful!" exclaimed his wife.
sorry. How did it happen?"

*[ don't know," said Kelton, and his normally mild face
was grim, “but, by the Lord Harry, I’m going to find out.”

*Some animal—" she began.

“An animal, yes," he cut in.
An animal that wore boots! Look

He waved his hand at the ground around the rose. She
saw the imprints, blurred but unmistakable, of soles and heels.

*But who could do so wanton and savage a thing?" said
Mrs. Kelton.

*Only a wanton savage," Kelton said.

*An enemy?"

“T can think of no one who hates me,” said Matthew Kelton.

She put her arm around his slender shoulders.

*No one could hate you, Matt," she said.
was done by some heedless small boys."

“A man did this, a big man. Look at the size of those foot-
prints," said Kelton.

*Perhaps some passing motorist helped himself to some of
our flowers," said Mrs. Kelton. “There was a full moon last

| vad 3 that sunny, soundless June morning,

*I'm so

*An animal, beyond a doubt.

“Perhaps this

night, you know, and it wouldn’t have been difficult.”

“They could not see this flower from the road,” said Kelton,
“and there are dozens of bushes much handier. To get to this
one rose he had to pass a thousand others. Besides, cars
almost never come up this dead-end road at night and when
they do I always hear them. I’m a light sleeper; but I heard
nothing. No, dear, this was done deliberately in cold fury,
and it worries me, worries me terribly.”

"I know, Matt,” said Martha Kelton, gently. “You loved
that rose. But wait! You'll grow another just as perfect.”

“Perhaps,” said Kelton. “I hardly dare hope to. But it's
not the rose I’m bothered about; it’s the mind that directed
the hands that shattered that rose. It frightens me, Martha—"

“Why?”

"It hardly bears thinking about," said Kelton. “Let’s go
into the house. I need my coffee this morning."

He had finished his breakíast, and lit his pipe and was dis-
tracting himself with the cryptogram in the morning news-
paper, when a huge motor-car came panting up the hill and a
huge and panting man in riding clothes got out of it and came
lumbering up the path to Kelton's vine-grown porch.

“Good-morning, Squire,” Kelton greeted the giant.

“Good morning nothing,” growled Squire Abernathy. “A
bad morning for me. Kelton, I swear if I get my hands on
him, I'll show him what real strangling is.”

His two big, calloused hands closed on an imaginary throat.

“What’s happened?” demanded Kelton, with quick concern.

The Squire’s fat face was mottled and creased with rage.

“Tex is dead,” he said.

“Tex? I’m distressed to hear that,” said Kelton.

“Murdered!” said the Squire. “Hung by the neck like a
common felon.”

“Who did it?”

“T don’t know—yet.”

“Some rival collie breeder, perhaps?” suggested Kelton.

“No,” stated Abernathy, emphatically. *No dog-lover would

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

harm so splendid an animal as Defender Tex. Poor
Tex—” Abernathy’s deep voice broke—‘he was
the handsomest creature I ever saw, as intelligent
as many men and better behaved than most, a real
gentleman, and I found him this morning hanging
high in that sycamore near his kennel, cold and
stiff. A fiend's work that, Kelton!”

“Any clues?”

“None; but I’m convinced the man was no
stranger around here.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Knew my place well. Dodged the burglar
alarms. Moreover, Tex must have known him, or
he never could have come near Tex. It’s a local
man, all right. Oh, yes, Kelton, I came here to
ask you to help me find him.”

“PIL help,” said Matthew Kelton. “Gladly.
Now, Squire, you know this section well. »

“Born here. Lived here all my life," said the Squire.
“Know every man, woman and child. Oh, yes."

“Can you think of anybody who might conceiv-
ably do such a foul deed?" queried Kelton.

Tower Studios

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

“Tve squeezed my brain till it's black and blue,”
said Abernathy, “and I can’t think of a soul. Of
course, there's that fellow——”

He paused, frowning blackly.

*Go on," urged Kelton.

*Well, I don't feel justified in accusing him of a
dirty trick like this," said the Squire, “but that
rich crank, General Bannerman, whose place is next
to mine, hates me, Claims my dogs killed his
pheasants. He's a liar, and so I told him. We
threw some bitter words back and forth. He's a
queer one, Kelton—and a possibility."

“The General is not overfond of me, either,"
observed Kelton. “We crossed swords at a town
meeting."

“Y’know, Kelton,” said the Squire, “I think
we may hear from this rascal again.”
“We already have,” said Kelton.

me, please.”

He led Abernathy across the garden and showed
him the wreck of the rose. Abernathy whistled;
then he swore in no uncertain terms.

“Come with

“His work!" he said. “TIl bet on that. Cursed
tough on you, Kelton. That rose was as wonder-
ful, in its way, as my Tex was in his. Well, what’s
next? They say things go in threes, you know.”

“Im not superstitious,’ said Matthew Kelton,
with a half smile.

Toward them through the roses came his wife.

“Matt,” she said, “I just took a telephone mes-
sage from General Bannerman. He's coming to
see you right away, Matt.”

“Did he say why, Martha?”

“Ves,” she told him. “It seems that last night
somebody broke into his house. Nothing was
stolen, but you know that lovely Raphael Madonna
he has—"

Kelton nodded.

“Well,” she went on, “it was slashed to ribbons."

The two men stared at each other. Mrs. Kelton
returned to the house.

“Do you think the General suspects you?” asked
Abernathy.

“Maybe he does.”

“Tf he accuses me,’ declared the
Squire, “I'll break him in two.”

Soon General Bannerman’s long
English car shot up the hill. The
General was an elderly man, very tall,

very erect, very stiff. He walked

straight up to Squire Abernathy.
“Heard about your dog, Abernathy,”

he said, gruffly. .““Noble animal. Rot-

ten shame. Sorry.”
“Thanks, General,” returned the
Squire. “And I’m sorry about your

picture.”

They stood eyeing each other awk-
wardly.

*Same scoundrel did both jobs, I
think," said General Bannerman. “It
could hardly be a coincidence."

“That’s my idea," said Abernathy.
“And Kelton is in this, too. Last
night his prize rose was ruined."

“Really?” said the General. “That’s
too bad, Kelton."

He cleared his throat, and there
was a tinge of embarrassment in his
voice, as he said:

“Look here, gentlemen, we've had
our tiffs; but I think we should call a
truce in our little war and combine
forces against the common enemy.
What do you say?"

“My hand on that," boomed the
Squire.

“And mine,” said Kelton.

“I came to see you, Kelton,” said
Bannerman, “because I thought you
might be willing to help me solve this
mystery.”

“Its a case for the police, you
know,” said Matthew Kelton.

“Police be blowed!” ejaculated the
General. “Those two scarecrows we
call constables couldn’t find a bull in
a bathroom, and that lazy, drunken
slob of a political sheriff couldn’t ar-
rest himself. I have notified the police,
but we can expect scant help from that
quarter. Gentlemen, this is our show.
Any suggestions?”

“The obvious one,” said Abernathy.
“The man’s mad.”

“Must be,” agreed Bannerman. “I
see no motive (Please turn to page 76)

Enter the detectives in love—Tubman Jones and beauti-
ful Jenny Jennings! A new series of unique detective
dramas, starting im this issue, which will thrill and
delight you! A crime reporter and a lovely columnist
find life one exciting adventure after another, as love

and danger lead them along a rocky road to romance?

By EMMA-LINDSAY

HE stocky young
man in the rum-
pled tuxedo, and

the fair-haired girl in
white chiffon, paused
outside the door of 214
with its neat little sign,
“Dr. William Lyons,
House Physician.”

Tubman Jones stifled
a yawn. His dark eyes
were a bit bloodshot
and weary. A hard day
at the office of the
Evening Gazette, where
he was a “crime man,"
followed by a dance on
the roof garden of the
Hotel Baumont, made
him averse to accepting
the invitation of the
garrulous, dapper doctor, to “run down and have a
good-night highball.”

“Why d’you want to bother with that old
woman?" he grumbled. 2 A `

Jenny Jennings dimpled up at him. No one
could have looked less the hard-boiled newspaper
woman. With her blue eyes and golden hair, she
had a deceptive Dresden china air of fragility . . .
until one noticed the strong, decisive chin. Then
one remembered that her father was Dr. Paul Jen-
nings, the famous criminologist, and that Jenny had
helped him in some of his most difficult cases.

“For the Gadabout column, stupid,” she whis-
pered. “He loves to tell me everything he knows

. . makes him feel like a collaborator.”

Her knuckles beat a light tattoo on the polished
panels of the door.

It was long after midnight, and the carpeted
corridor was a buff-colored tunnel of discretly
lighted silence.

The door opened eagerly, and Dr. Lyons made
hospitable burbling noises as he ushered them into
the luxurious room, disposed of their wraps on the
cushioned davenport, and began rather breathily
the business of mixing drinks.

“I promised you an item, Miss Jennings," he
beamed, his pale eyes blinking from behind neatly
rimmed spectacles. “Of course, what I have to tell
you won't interest Mr. Jones ." he smiled

SQUIER

toothily at the chunky young man, “because it
has nothing to do with crime. But it may inter-
est you, Miss Jennings . . . yes, I'm sure it will.
You know of course that Lita Bernard, the famous
actress, lives here at the Baumont. . . .”

Tubman Jones accepted a tall, frosted glass
somewhat morosely, and settled himself in a deep
chair on the small of his back, to the further dis-
advantage of his already mussed tuxedo. One of
the toughest things about being in love with a
girl like Jenny . . . aside from a year of pretense
that he was just being a platonic big brother . . .
was to see the way other men looked at her. He
suspected that Dr. Lyons wasn’t nearly as inter-
ested in the Gadabout column as in its golden-
haired editor.

Jenny smiled appropriately, and touched her
glass to that of Doctor Lyons.

“Yes, I knew that. And her leading man,
Raoul Demarest, lives here too, doesn’t he?” Her
blue eyes sharpened suddenly, giving an effect of
brittle lights turned on in a rose-tinted boudoir.
“You aren’t going to tell me that they’re married
. at last? Oh, what a swell story that would

be.

“No, no, no,” he denied hastily, putting up a
hand slightly pudgy and womanish. “It’s quite
the reverse, as a matter of fact. They’ve quar-
reled, and he’s leaving her company. Her French
maid came running for a sedative . . . Miss
Bernard was in hysterics. Really, she made quite
a scene. You know how actresses are. . . .”

Jenny nodded, a trifle absently. Tubby had the
feeling that Dr. Lyons’ proffered item was dis-
tasteful to her. But she said brightly, *Oh, don't
I! I went to interview Miss Bernard once in her
dressing-room, and the hysterics were rolling all
around the place, like the thunder in Alice in
Wonderland. She and Raoul had had a quarrel
that day. He came out of her dressing-room like
a blond raging lion, shouting that he was going
to leave the company for good . . . but of course
he didn't."

The dapper, somewhat paunchy house physician
looked a trifle crestfallen.

“But really, I do think this quarrel was about
something special, I really do. It was her maid
who told me. . . . It seems that Miss Bernard
and Raoul Demarest had had a terrific quarrel,
and that finally . . . he threatened violence. I

As they came into the room, they were
conscious of clutter and great disorder,

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Tower Studios, Courtesy Fifth Avenue Hotel

gathered that the maid was really afraid for her
mistress’s life.”

Jenny’s eyes were alert once more.

“What was the row about?”

Doctor Lyons shook his head sadly.

“Really, I couldn’t make it out. You know what
an accent the woman has, and she was most inco-
herent. I called on Miss Bernard of course, and
found her in tears. I administered a sedative, and
I hope some slight comfort in the way of advice.
But really, I do think this must have been more
than just a lovers’ quarrel. . . .”

Tubby squirmed uncomfortably. The jaunty
doctor’s repetitions were getting on his nerves.

“Pll talk to Miss Bernard or Mr. Demarest to-
morrow,” Jenny promised, “and see if he’s really
going to leave her company. That would be news!
You know how devoted he has been . . . everyone
has expected their marriage for at least two
years: e. 2n

She rose, and Tubby heaved himself upward
with a sigh of thanksgiving. He picked up Jenny's
gold-threaded lamé jacket from the davenport, and
held it for her.

“And thanks a lot, Doctor, for tipping me off.”

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

The cruel bruises
on her throat were
deepening into ugly
circles. In the bath-
room a woman
screamed, “Let me
_out! Let me out!”

A dimple appeared at the corner of her delicately
tinted lips. “It’s nice to know that you approve
of my work, even if you do think my dad’s methods
are unethical.”

A flush spread over Doctor Lyons’ pinkish fea-
tures. “Now, now,” he countered uncomfortably,
“that’s hardly fair, is it? Naturally, as a man of
medicine, I distrust metaphysics and far fetched
ideas concerning hypnosis and the like. . . .”

She laughed outright, and Tubby felt a little jerk
in the neighborhood of his heart. Jenny’s laughter
was like the rest of her; wholesome, delightful.. He
opened the hall door.

“Oh, that’s all right. Dad doesn’t expect to be
agreed with. In fact, I think he thrives on opposi-
tion. But you will admit that he does get re-
sults eun.

Her voice broke off abruptly. From far down
the corridor with its muted lights and somberly ele-
gant paneling, there came the high, thin sound of a
woman's scream. Again and again it came, rising
to a crescendo of terror and agony. For an instant,
the three in the warm, luxurious room stared at
each other with tingling breathlessness. Then
Tubby yanked the door fully open, and went loping

From down the hall came
the high, thin sound of a
woman’s scream.

down the hall toward the end of the corridor.

Jenny flung the gold threaded jacket back on the
davenport, picked up her chiffon skirts in both
hands, and raced after him, her silver evening
slippers twinkling on the buff carpet like stars play-
ing tiddledy winks.

Doctor Lyons dashed into the adjoining office,
switched on the lights, and fumbled for his black
bag. Then belatedly, he panted and puffed in the
wake of the other two, tossing breathy, soothing
words to opening doors and startled, disheveled
heads.

“No, no, nothing really .

. a lady who is very nervous. . .

He knew it was Lita Bernard.

. just a nightmare

”

HE screams had ceased. But by the time Dr.
Lyons arrived at the transversing corridor
where a short right-angled hallway opened into a
suite of rooms, a hollow pounding was audible,
fierce and irregular, like an African drum, in-
expertly played. And a muffled voice could be
heard calling, “Help! Help! Let me out!”
“In here, Doc," Tubby indicated “280.” He al-
ready had the door open, (Please turn to page 60)

The
DUCHESS
SPOTS |
a KILLER

Pinky Kane, Spike Kaylor and
the beautiful Katie Blayne join
forces to trap a master crimi-
nal, with results that are highly
disturbing to one reporter’s

heart and a killer’s perfect alibi

By
WHITMAN
CHAMBERS

afternoon Spike Kaylor had evidently just
hit the ceiling and come down with feet
spread, fists clenched and eyes shooting fire.

“All right, you lugs!” he bellowed, glaring around
the room. “Who took it?”

Willie Blake of the Sentinel, Pete Zerker, who
works for the Bulletin, and Slim Lonergan went
on with their card game. Katie Blayne, blond and
slim and lovely, who covers day police for the
Sun, proceeded calmly with the business of making
up her lips.

Spike aimed a kick at the waste basket. “If this
is an act,” he roared, “you yokels can ring down
the lousy curtain! . . . Who took it?”

Everybody remained very busy.

I said mildly to my co-worker on the Telegram:
“Who took what?” i

“Why, my new overcoat,” he indignantly replied.
“I leave it hanging there on a hook by the wash-
bowl. I run up to the mayor’s office for a chat.
I come back and it’s gone.”

Well, there was something queer about it. This
was October in California. Overcoats, for such
hardy souls as Spike Kaylor, were still in
mothballs. And as for a new overcoat—
Spike’s. salary, by his own confession, was
more than a week overdrawn.

“Come on, you muggs!” Spike stormed.
“Kick in! Where's my overcoat?”

Pete Zerker, his long face singularly like
that of a tired truck horse, looked up from
his cards. “This, Mr. Kaylor, is a press
room,” he pointed out. “The checking
concession has not yet been farmed out. Until it
is, are we to be responsible for such miscellaneous
articles of wearing apparel as you choose g

“Oh, skip it! Who was in here while I was
upstairs?”

Willie pursed his lips. “Let me see

“Duchess!” Spike snapped.

Katie closed her compact and looked up, smiling.
“Ves—darling!”

AN I walked into the City Hall press room that

“I thought you news-
paper guys weren’t
supposed to play
cards till after three
o'clock," Jake Mor-

ris jeered.

“Who was in here during the half hour I was
talking to the mayor?”

“Why, at least a dozen people dropped in,
Spike,” she replied, and then added, “mostly
cops.”

“That’s a lot of help,” Spike groaned.

I said, “Look here, guy. If the question isn’t out
of order, may I ask where you got a new overcoat?”

Spike looked vaguely foolish. “What in Sam
Hill has that got to do with it?”

“Your young cohort,” Pete Zerker told me, “has
been indulging his well-known predilection for crap
shooting.”

“Spike,” said Willie Blake, “was down in the
bull pen this morning shooting crap with the city’s
guests.”

“Yes,” said the Duchess brightly, “Spike won a
beautiful camel's hair overcoat from "

“Of all people," Pete Zerker said indignantly.

“A burglar,” Katie finished.

Spike flushed, growling: “There’s no law against
it, is there?”

“There are plenty of laws against it,” I said.
“but don’t worry about them. Who is this burglar
you won the coat from?”

“A punk by the name of Dopey McClain. Held
in five grand bail for a job in Leona Heights.”

“And where is Dopey McClain now?”

“Last I saw of him he was back in his cell. The
turnkey caught us just after I'd won the overcoat
and locked the whole gang up again." Spike

grinned reminiscently. *Almost locked me up, too."
“We,” said Willie Blake, “would have been saved
a lot of grief if he had."
“Spike, you poor sap!" I said. ‘“Hasn’t it pene-
trated your thick cranium that this guy has made

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

bail and walked calmly in here and reclaimed his
coat?”

“What guy has made bail, huh?”

We all turned and there stood big Jake Morris,
who had slipped into the room without, as usual, a
sound. Jake looks like he was raised in a dark
cellar. He is as offensive as one of those gray
bugs you find when you turn over a board. But
Jake was one of our crosses. He wrote bail bonds
and we had to tolerate him. A bail bond broker
can break more news than six chiefs of police.

“Here,” I said, “is the so-and-so in the wood-

ile."
: *[ ain't been in no woodpile," Jake said virtu-
ously, “and I ain't no so-and-so, What guy were
you talkin’ about made bail, huh?”

“A guy by the name of Dopey McClain. How
about it, Jake?”

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

“Sure. I wrote his bond,” answered Jake.

“When?” Spike demanded.

Jake looked up at the clock; it was eight minutes
of three, “If I remember correct, Dopey was re-
leased at two-forty. I think that’s what it says on
the blotter.”

Spike gasped. “That damned punk must have
just slipped by me in the hall. All right, Jake.
Where is he?”

“Should I know where he is?”

“Now don’t be funny. You’re not going to write
a five-grand bond on a burglar and then turn him
loose to skip on you. Where you got him stowed
away?”

Jake grinned and turned out his coat pockets.
“I swear it, Spike. I ain't got the faintest idea
where he is."

Spike groaned and sat down, wiping the per-

"Tower Studios

"Duchess, you stay here.
This may £et rough."

spiration off his face with a soiled
handkerchief. *A swell bunch of pals
you turned out to be," he said bitterly.

Jake chuckled; he sounded as
though he were trying to cough a fish
bone out of his throat. He looked at
the card players. “I thought you news-
paper guys weren’t supposed to play
cards till after three o'clock," he
jeered.

“What’s three o'clock got to do
with it?" I asked.

Pete Zerker looked up. “You
haven’t heard the Chief’s latest, Pinky.
Newspaper men assigned to the City
Hall will refrain from playing cards
in the press room until after three
o'clock. We're breaking rules for the
fun of it."

"The hell you say!
bright idea?"

All eyes turned to Katie.

*Well, Duchess?" I said.

"It was the Lady's
Pinky."

She referred to Miss Jane Tobin,
the hell-roaring, two-fisted city editor
of the Sun. It was Miss Tobin who,
a few months before, had sent Katie
Blayne over to cover police. And it
was Katie Blayne who, serene and
beautiful and disgustingly competent,
had not only seriously cramped our
style but had put over a number of
important news beats on us.

What's the

suggestion,

“I see," I replied heavily. “Miss Tobin, besides
running the Sun these days, is now trying to take
the directorship of the press room."

""That's about it, Pinky," the Duchess nodded,
smiling.

“I ask again, what's the bright idea?”

“Card games draw so many bums.” She looked
straight at big Jake Morris. *And bums, hanging
around all the time, interfere with my work."

Jake bristled. “I like that. A bum, huh? I'm
a bum, huh?”

“Sing it, Jake,” Katie said pleasantly.

Jake gurgled.

“All right, Duchess,” I said. “Have it your way.
You and the Lady keep on. You'll lead with your
right once too often.”

“And then?”

“We'll hang one on you,” I said viciously, “that'll
put you to sleep for a week.”

Pete Zerker said, “It seems to me, Pinky, that
you and Spike have been making that threat for
a long time.”

“Go fry your mush, Pete!” I snapped. And to
Jake! “Come on, Jake, deal ’em.”

“Okay.”

I jerked over a chair and sat down. Jake set a
flask of whiskey on the desk and picked up a
deck of cards.

The others went back to their card game. Jake
and I sat down to a two-handed game of pinochle.
Katie went out, conjured a story from some one,
and phoned it to her office on her private line.
Spike Kaylor sulked in a corner, occasionally pass-
ing a remark about his pals who had let a burglar
walk into the room and steal his overcoat.

It was all pretty dull. Cordially disliking Jake
Morris, bored by the rest, I didn’t get much kick
out of the game. It was four o’clock and I’d about
decided to call it off and go to a movie—I wasn’t
due to take over the beat from Spike until six—
when we got the flash.

Slim Jenkins, one of the dicks on the pawn shop
detail, poked his head into the room,

“Hey, you guys! Want a swell murder?” -

Did we want a swell murder!

“Al Rosenblatt. You know, the diamond im-
porter. Office in the McDonald Building. They
just found him. Brains scattered all over the floor.
Safe open and cleaned. Thought you’d like to
know.”

Would we like to know!

We went out of there like a string of apparatus
on a three-alarm fire. And left big Jake calling,
“Hey! You owe me four bits. Hey, Pink!”

Spike and I, Willie and Zerker shot across the
street and down the block to the McDonald Build-
ing, an ancient three-story structure which had
somehow been overlooked when progress marched
across the downtown district. As we were clatter-
ing up the stairs I realized all at once that Katie
was right on our heels.

I stopped, swung around, blocked her path.

“Look, kid! You don't want to see this. It'll
be a mess. Why drag along? You haven't an
edition for a couple of hours. Go back to the hall
and get the story from the dicks."

“Pinky, Pinky,” she said sadly, breathlessly. “Do
you really think I’m too soft to look at a dead
man?”

"You're not soft, Katie. You can take "em as
they come. But why go out of your way. to look
at a thing like this?"

"Because I want all the details for my paper.
And I can't count on anybody to give them to me."

Well, she'd been fighting us for a long time, a
lone girl against four men. I wondered if she
wasn't getting a bit tired of carrying the ball for
the Sun.

“You can count on me, kid," I told her. “PI
give you all the dope. I'm not officially on the
job till six, you know, and Spike Kaylor will
have to z

“Thanks, Pinky,” she interrupted. Her blue eyes
were steady as they met mine, and her voice was
cool. “TIl go upstairs now, please. If you'll stand
aside.”

“Oh. So you don’t trust me.”

“Not even a little bit, Pinky,” she said quietly.
“All right, Duchess. To hell with you!”
I ran on up the stairs, boiling.

L ROSENBLATT, the diamond merchant, had

a single room on the third floor, one of the

few offices now occupied in this ramshackle build-

ing. Bodie Wallis, Captain of Detectives, and Pete

Moran, head of the homicide detail, were in charge
and a harness bull stood on guard at the door.

We all flashed our press cards and went in. The
room was large and was furnished with a desk,
several chairs, a big square table in the center and
an old-fashioned safe in the far corner. The door
of the safe was open and, between it and the table,
was the body of Al Rosenblatt.

The diamond merchant lay on his back, one leg
drawn under him, both arms raised as though he
had been shielding his head when he fell. His dull
eyes, wide with the terror which had gripped him,
stared up at the ceiling. His bald head was a
bloody mess. The top of the skull had been caved
in with a jack handle which, wrapped with a blood-
stained rag, lay beside the body.

“Like it, Duchess?" I asked Katie in an under-
tone.

“Love it.” Her whisper was resolute, but her
face was dead white and she held her lips tight to
keep them írom trembling. Captain Wallis was
questioning a slight, middle-aged man who stood
by the table mopping his gray-green face.

*Have you touched anything, Mr. Rosenblatt?"

The sweating man said: “Not a thing except the
telephone, Captain. As soon as I forced the lock
and got in I called police headquarters. I didn't
even touch my—the body. I knew my father was
dead."

“Now let's go over this again. You say it's your
custom to call for your father every afternoon at
three-thirty?”

“Yes, sir. He wasn’t well and kept short office
hours. He had no car of his own and didn’t care
for taxis, so I made a point of calling for him and
taking him home.”

“And today you came and found the door locked
and got no answer when you knocked.”

“Yes.”

“You suspected something was wrong and broke

the lock.” Captain Wallis looked at the door and
back again at the little man, skeptically.

“Yes. The lock gave quite easily. The building
is old, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Wallis looked down at the dead
man. ‘Was your father in the habit of keeping any
great number of diamonds in that old safe?”

“No. He kept his diamonds in a safety deposit
vault. But when he expected a customer he went
out and got them and put them in the safe. He
never left any gems there overnight.”

Captain Wallis nodded and strolled to the desk,
while Rosenblatt folded limply into a chair. The
captain, with something of the air of a pouncing
cat, picked up a memorandum pad. He read:

“Frank Leopold. Three p. m. Two-three carat.”
He looked over his shoulder at Rosenblatt. “Did
your father do business with Frank Leopold?”
Leopold is one of the city’s leading jewelers.

“No. Not for two years. They had an argument
over some stones.”

Wallis grunted. “Then how come, do you sup-
pose, Frank Leopold made an appointment with
your father for 3 p. m. to look at some two- and
three-carat diamonds?"

“I can't understand that, Captain. I didn't think
Leopold would ever do business with my father
again."

Pete Moran, who had been kneeling beside the
body, jumped up excitedly. He held out a watch,
exclaimed: "Look, Captain! Stopped at 3:01."

Wallis took the watch, turned it over in his
palm, nodded thoughtfully.

“Get it?” Moran asked, bubbling with eagerness.

“I think so." The Captain laid the watch on
the table and stood for a moment surveying the
scene. “It was like this. Some one came here to
look at diamonds. Rosenblatt opened his safe and
when he turned from it he was tapped on the head.
He fell forward, as a man does when he's knocked
cold. In falling he hit the corner of the table with
his chest. That caved in the back of his watch and
stopped it."

*Have it your own way, Duchess," I
said, “but you and the Lady will lead
with the right once too often."

“And fixed the time of the killing,” Moran put
in, hurriedly, “at exactly 3:01.”

“Yes. And in striking the corner of the table
that way, Rosenblatt spun around so that he fell .
on his back. The killer proceeded to finish him
where he lay, rifle the safe, set the catch on the
door and lam out of here.”

Captain Wallis paused and looked sharply at the
little man in the chair. He asked, very casually:

“Where, Mr. Rosenblatt, were you at three
o’clock this afternoon?”

Rosenblatt gulped. His jaw dropped and he
stared blankly at Wallis for a moment. “Why I—
I was in my office. I’m an attorney, you know.”

The Captain's voice was a bit sharper. “Yes, I
know that. Who was with you in your office from,
say, two-thirty until you came up here at three-

thirty? ... Come, come! Who was with you there?
Anybody?"

“Y-y-es. Certainly." Rosenblatt got hold of
himself. “From two-thirty to three-thirty I was

conferring with three of my clients. I see what
you're driving at, Captain, but you're off on the
wrong foot. I have a perfect alibi. Three of the
most prominent men in this city were with A

“Let it pass!" Wallis barked. “Moran, get Frank
Leopold on the phone and tell him to report to
headquarters immediately. As for you fellows"—
he looked around at us—“you ought to have your
story, so suppose you clear out and give us a
chance to go over this room properly.”

I said quickly: “May we look at that watch,
Captain?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

I went over to the table and picked up the time-
piece. It was an octagonal Hamilton of fairly re-
cent vintage. Though the crystal was unbroken,
the hands had stopped at 3:01. Turning it over, I
saw that the case was engraved with the initials
“A. Z. R.” in block letters. The back of the watch
was jammed in with a very definite impression;
Rosenblatt had evidently struck the corner of the
table with considerable force when he fell.

Willie and Zerker had already dashed for a tele-
phone to catch their Final Nights with the story.
Spike and Katie looked at the watch and then the
three of us started back to the press room together.
When we got out of the (Please turn to page 79)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

COMPLETE NOVEL by HARRIETT

DECORATIONS BY NICHOLAS F. RILEY

ASHBROOK

HE KILLED

A THOUSAND

CHAPTER I

“WT may be life, but ain't it dull?”

I The lazy young man a-sprawl in the porch
chair flung down his book and gazed across
the blue waters of the bay. A

“I beg pardon, sir?” The voice was soft and dis-
creet in the best traditions of English butlerdom.

“Just quoting. Guy named Herbert. He knows
what he's talking about."

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir."

“You lie! It's lousy.”

The discreet voice made no comment, but a tall,
tinkling glass was deftly inserted into the curve of
the young man's hand as it lay outflung in boredom
across the wicker table beside the chair. His fingers
closed around its icy smoothness.

“God! Even the liquor’s lousy!” _

“Beg pardon, sir, but that’s the special brand you
ordered the other day. Durfey & Benson.”

“Well, it’s lousy just the same.”

The young man took another swallow, and scowled
at the landscape. x

“The trouble is," he said, “I’m getting old.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m twenty-nine and I’m bored as hell.”

“Beg pardon, sir, but might I suggest that—”

“No!”

Inertia changed to sudden irritation. The young
man’s feet came down off the chair opposite with
a bang, and he twisted in his seat to confront the
soft discreet voice at his elbow.

“Sit down!"

The soft, discreet voice sat.

*Pour yourself a drink!" f

Soda sizzed in a second tall, tinkling glass.

“Now be yourself!”

“Very goo—”

“Yourself, I said.”
to the tone.

“O.K., Chief.” E

“That’s better, but make it ‘Spike’.” "

The young man relaxed once more into his com-
fortable sprawl and let his eyes rest this time on
the figure before him..

A surprising figure it was.

Short, just a bit over five feet, Pug Beasley had
never in all his forty years, so much as seen an
English household, let alone an English butler. His
scarred, battered features taken separately—the
broken nose, the missing teeth, the bent left ear—
were not prepossessing, but the ensemble, though
ugly, was comic and strangely intriguing.

“Just what,” said Spike, “is the idea?"

Pug relaxed gratefully. !

“Well, you see, it’s like this. I been readin’ a

There was a threatening edge

“Bad business, Pug. The higher learning has
ruined more than one prizefighter.” 3

“Yeah, but I don’t read so good, and I ain't a
fighter no more, so I guess it ain’t gonna do me no
harm. Anyway this book here, I’m tellin’ you about,

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

has got a butler in it. A real classy one. And I
figure to myself that this here job with you is pretty
soft, and if I'm gonna hold it I'd ought to be per-
fectin' myself in my art. If I’m gonna be a butler,
I'm gonna be a good butler, like when I was a
fighter, I was a good fighter, see?"

“I see, but I don't think it's so hot.”

“Well, that's maybe because I ain't so good yet.
I ain't had the book but about two weeks, and I’m
only at page eighty-three. Gimme time."

“Give you time and you'll work yourself right
out of your soft job."
“Whaddaya mean?"

hensive.

“I mean that I didn't hire you to be a butler. If
I'd wanted a butler, I would have gotten a butler,
not a has-been bantam-weight pug. 1 loathe butlers.
They're too damn snooty. They don't realize that
this is a democratic world. A butler, for instance,
would never sit down and put his feet up on the
table and drink with the mahster."

“No? Well, that just shows what a sap he is."

"See that you don't get to be that kind of sapi

“Well, I’ll tell you, Spike. With you—no. ut
in front of company, it's class. See?”

“All right, in front of company, but at your own
risk. There's no telling when I may haul off and
bust you one in exasperation."

Pug grinned. “Couldn’t be done.
too good for you."

The two men sat for a few moments in silence,
sipping their drinks and smoking. Presently Spike
Epo e, taking up once more the thread of his bore-

om.

“What do you do, Pug, when you don't know what
in God's name to do?"

Pug considered the question judicially. “Well, if
I got the price, I get drunk."

Spike shook his head. “No good. I tried that all
last week. The relief’s just temporary."

“Well, if you're hell bent on goin’ to hell, and
likker won't do it, most everybody else tries women."

Again Spike shook his head. “A vastly over-rated
means of degeneration. Anyway modern morals
have destroyed sin. It’s called ‘living life to the
full' now."

Plainly Pug was stumped. Liquor and women
exhausted his own personal repertoire of iniquity.
His was a simple soul, untuned to the finer nuances
of wickedness. In desperation he cast about into
those realms of vicarious experience in which he
had lately been immersed.

*Well, in this book I'm readin', the one with the
classy butler in it, it starts off with a guy that's
kinda like you. I mean he's got tons of jack, and
he ain't bad lookin’ but he ain't got nothin’ to do
except spend his jack and make janes, and he's
already kinda tired of doin' that, so he begins lookin'
up ads in the newspapers. You know like—well—"

He reached for the Saugus Weekly Index that lay
on the wicker table and opened it to the column
of personal notices. Not as pretentious as the city

Pug looked suddenly appre-

My foot work's

MEN

newspaper, nevertheless it boasted a personal column
enlivened with photographs. There were two in
today—a young man and a cow. He handed the
paper to Spike.

eneath the young man the caption read: “Will
anyone knowing whereabouts of fourteen year old
boy resembling this photograph communicate with
Box 71, Saugus Index.”

And beneath the cow: “Will anyone knowing
whereabouts of Holstein cow marked like above
communicate with C. F. Springer, Old Lane Road,
Saugus."

There was also an advertisement of the midsum-
mer strawberry festival of the First Presbyterian
Church of Saugus, an announcement of a meeting
of the Farmers’ Co-operative, and three notices of
strayed calves.

Spike flung the paper from him.
afraid they won't do."

Pug agreed with him. They sighed in unison and
for a long time sat gazing gloomily out across the
gay ripple of the bay, musing on the barrenness of
life. Presently Spike yawned prodigiously, stretched,
and gathered together his sprawling members.

“I guess there's nothing for it, Pug, but to give
myself up to good works."

Pug looked apprehensive.
takin' jelly to the sick?"

“Hardly. I'm not exactly the type for that. What
I had in mind was a trip over to the mainland to my
brother's."

Pug rose and started gathering up the glasses.
“I don't suppose," he said as he busied himself with
an overflowing ash tray, "that there's much ac-
countin' for tastes."

“Meaning, of course, that you think my brother
is one. of the most God-awful blisters on the land-
scape."

Pug nodded. “What do you want to see him for?"

“I was thinking of Teddy. I feel sorry for the
kid. He wrings my heart. He's been sick, and I
promised him I'd come and see him and bring him
some stamps. Tell Mrs. Parsons I'll be back late
for dinner, maybe not before eight."

"The paper says storm tonight.
look out crossin' the bay."

CHAPTER II
Gites or to give him his baptismal name, Philip

“No, Pug, I'm

“You mean prayin’ and

You’d better

Tracy, was a blithe, debonair young man of
great insouciance, infinite good humor and a
feeling that life is more bearable if laughed at.
He was twenty-nine, personable in a tall, blond way,
with plenty of inherited money, and an inclination
to enjoy what he had rather than make more. He
had an apartment in New York and a summer
cottage on an island two miles off the south shore
of Long Island.
His brother, Richard, shared none of his insouciant
qualities. Between the ages of one and three Richard
had been subjected to the portrait of an ancestor in

pn a MM —— M —

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

pe —MM————M—

a frock coat with the left hand stuck in the chest
about to make a speech. It had hung over the mantel
in the drawing-room and he had viewed it every day
of his life and it had left an indelible imprint. Life
as he saw it was serious and should be treated with
proper respect. Man was created for some useful
purpose like being district attorney of New York
County—which Richard was. Man should strive
onward and upward, ever aspiring toward some-
thing higher like being senator or governor—which
was Richard's secret ambition.

Man should not waste his youth in idle bachelor-
dom but should found a family. And as Richard
was some fifteen years older than Philip, the family
which he had dutifully if not passionately founded
was now twelve years old and just recovering from
the mumps.

Hilda, Teddy’s mother, was, in the eyes of Teddy’s
Uncle Spike, the perfect mate for Teddy’s father,
R. Montgomery Tracy. Shorn of the complications
of family relationship, the matter reduced to simple
terms was this: If Spike considered his brother a
blister, he regarded
his sister-in-law as a
boil.

How the two of
them together had
ever managed to
produce a child as
appealing as Teddy
was one of the ma-
jor mysteries of life
which he had refused
to tackle. He did,
however, feel a cer-
tain responsibility
toward the child in
ameliorating the
hardness of his lot.
And in consequence
he found himself
some fifteen minutes after his parting with Pug,
cutting through the soft ripples of the bay, heading
his motor launch toward the mainland of Long
Island and the Saugus wharf.

The town of Saugus by some strange miracle had
escaped the depredations of summer vacationists and
antique hunters, and had preserved much of the
quiet, sleepy flavor that is one of the chief charms
of very old and very small shore villages. There
was still the white church that had been built in
1794, and the same little leaded-pane shops that had
lined its streets since the Civil War.

It was into one of these that Spike strolled after
he had moored his launch down at the rotting, green-
lichened pier at the foot of Main Street.

Milo Taylor, the proprietor, a rosy, graying, rotund
fellow, sat behind a tall roll-top desk in a back
corner of the shop. 4

“So it’s stamps you’re after again,” he said when
Spike had stated his business. “Well, I guess I still
got some left—somewhere.” He started paying about
aimlessly in the roll-top desk. “I recollect I bought
quite a sight of ’em about two, three years ago from
a salesman that come through. Nobody much has
bought ’em, though, except you and the boy up to
your brother’s place.” d 8

“Im getting them for him," Spike explained. “He’s
been sick. Mumps.”

SPIKE

self from his chair. He wandered about the
shop, peering under a length of cloth here,
opening up an empty tin there. And finally found
what he was looking for in a large and ornate vase
made from clam shells embedded in pink cement.

“Here they are,” and he shook them out onto the
desk. “Always had a hankerin’ after stamps myself
ever since I read an article about them in one of the
New York papers, the time they had the big exhi-
bition, back a spell" . 3

The stamps were a miscellaneous lot, done up in
little soiled, dusty cellophane envelopes. Spike se-
lected several packets from South African colonies,
one of air mail issues, and two mixed assortments.

“How much?” 2

Milo pursued his lips uncertainly. Cost accounting
had no place in his scheme of merchandising. “Oh
—well—say about fifty, seventy-five cents.” —

He laughed as he pocketed the coins Spike flipped
across the counter. “You know this article I was
tellin’ you about says they’s some stamps that are
worth thousands of dollars. Thousands!”

“Don’t tell Teddy about thom. It would sort of
take the edge off my seventy-five cents worth.”

“Well, you never can tell. Now maybe unbe-
knownst to anybody there might be one of them
real valuable ones in one of them there packets you
got. Milo seemed to regard the prospect of a for-
tune slipping through his fingers with his usual

equanimity.
T recollect this article was tellin’ about a fellow

M5 tch-tched sympathetically and heaved him-

that come across a bank that was movin’ from
a place they’d been fifty, sixty years, and they was
going to throw out a lot of old letters and stuff. And
he give a hundred dollars for the lot, and what do
you know if he didn’t find some of these here valu-
able stamps, and sold ’em for seven, eight thousand
dollars.

“And they was tellin’ about one stamp—just one,
mind you—that was worth twenty-five thousand—
no, no, it was thirty-two thousand——"

Reluctantly Spike tore himself away from Milo's
tall tales of stamp fortunes. He would have pre-
ferred to stay and listen to the store-keeper's genial
ramblings, but having pledged himself to good works,
he felt that the sooner he got them over the better.

PIKE felt that his sister-in-law's greeting was
unusually cool. “Teddy,” she told him curtly
in reply to his inquiry, “is ill."

“I know. That's why I came over.
him some stamps."

“Stamps!”

The inference of her tone was that someone was
about to present her son with a bunch of adders.

“For his collection,” Spike explained.

“He has no collection.”

“Oh yes, he has. He was showing it to me just
the other day.”

“He has no collection. I ordered Perkins to burn
it—this morning.”

“Why you di—" Spike caught himself abruptly
and finished the sentence mentally, using some of
the more outspoken, four-letter terms for which the
Anglo-Saxon is famous.

“To burn it—this morning. I was reading a book
only last week on various phases of the Oriental
plague, and they have on record three cases over
a period of twenty years which are directly trace-
able to stamps. The plague bacillus adheres to the
glue of the stamp, forming ?

Spike rose abruptly. "Where's Teddy?
to see him."

“Teddy can see no one."

“He’s not as sick as all that.
yesterday that he——"

“For a period of six weeks Teddy will not be
at home to anyone—anyone. I’m reading a book
now, a marvelous book on an entirely new phase of
child psychology which points out that during the
child's twelfth year he should go through a period
of intensive——”

Spike was off the porch before she could finish
her sentence. He jerked open the door of his car
which he had picked up in a garage in Saugus,
turned the key and jammed in the clutch. The
engine roared with quite unnecessary anger. Hilda
picked up her book and went on with her reading.

It was just beyond the shrubbery that shut off
the house from the road that a figure jumped from
the bushes and gesticulated wildly. Spike put on
squealing brakes.

“Perkins, what the hell?"

"It's Master Teddy, Mr. Philip. He asked if I
would give you this when I saw you instead of—
of burning it. But you won't, of course, say any-
thing to Mrs. Tracy about it, will you?"

Perkins was old and white-haired and his gentle,
kindly eyes were appealing as he held out a clumsily
done-up package. Spike slipped the wrapping off.
It was a grubby stamp album and inside was a
letter in round little-boy writing.

I brought

I want

The doctor said

“Spike: Take care of this for me. "They're
going to burn it on me. And if you find any
good new Russian air mails save them.

Teddy.
P.S. Do you know a book that says that stamps
are good for you? If you do will you please buy
it and send it anonmusly to Mother and I will
pay you back twenty cents a week from my
allouance."

CHAPTER III

HE heat of the afternoon had given way be-

fore lowering clouds, and with darkness had

some a storm that whipped the calm waters

of the bay into tumbling waves. The wind
was rising now, driving the rain against the win-
dow panes. :

Spike lit an after-dinner cigarette and raised his
voice above the rattling of the shutters as he ad-
dressed Pug.

“Tell me something. What the hell do you think
I hired you for?" i

“I couldn’t rightly say,” said Pug complacently.
“Neither could you. The both of us was too cock-
eyed that night to remember anything correct.”

The stern lines of Spike’s face relaxed at the
recollection of a certain night three months before
when he had first made the acquaintance of Mr.
Pug Beasley.

It had been in the Garden. Nothing exciting, just
the usual Thursday night card of second raters who
might some day be champions, and second raters
who had once been champions. There had been two
light weights . . . stalling . . . stalling . . . round
after round of heavy, dull evasion. The crowd had
started to boo. . . . “Wake me up when they start
to fight.". .. “Don’t hit him, Clarence, you might
hurt him.". . . One of the fighters had gotten mad
atthe crowd. Words had been flung back and forth
over the ropes. “All right, if you can do any better
come on up here and do it, you little dried up prune."

A small, belligerent figure had scrambled, crawled,
swayed into the ring. Dead, roarin' drunk. He had
fought with his bare fists and both of the fighters
at once. A gallant fight! A challenge! ... Always
stick up for a game fighter. ... Another figure had
crawled and scrambled and swayed into the ring
... larger, clad in evening clothes and silk topper
. . . dead, roarin’ drunk, too. It was a grand four-
cornered melee.

Afterward on the way to the precinct station
house in the patrol wagon, they had introduced them-
selves with the extreme formality of which only the
very drunk are capable. “Mr. Pug Beasley, one of
the bes’ bantam-weight fighters in the world ’til I
got too fat, one of the bes'.". . . “Mr. Spike Tracy,
one of the bes’—no, no, one of the wors’——”

They had spent the night together in the same
cell In the morning the desk sergeant had been
somewhat embarrassed to discover that one of his
guests was the younger brother of the district at-
torney. He was all for letting him go quietly, but
Spike refused unless he be allowed to take along
a friend. Even the elastic procedure of the police
department—where friends are concerned—could not
be stretched quite that far. And Spike's wallet had
been lost in the fight the night before.

In the end R. Montgomery Tracy had been forced
to come down in person and put up the money for
fines. He had not missed the opportunity to lecture
his younger brother on the “thoroughly disgrace-
ful" nature of his conduct and his associate. It was,
as Spike frequently pointed out, the beginning of a
beautiful friendship.

Its only discordant feature was Pug's insistence
on doing a little work. He received a salary far
in excess of his actual services, and occasionally his
conscience smote him.

"[ hired you," said Spike, drifting back to the
present, “to do what I tell you to do. Light up."
He tossed him a pack of cigarettes and a
lighter.

“How’s the kid, Teddy?” Pug asked when he was
settled comfortably, smoking.

“Lousy.” Spike related the afternoon’s misad-
ventures.

"Ain't I glad my old lady was a bum,” Pug com-
mented complacently, ‘and left me on a doorstep.
It's fierce what kids with mothers has got to endure.
em

e rest of his sentence was drowned in 2
of thunder and wind. fhe roar

“Tough night out,” Spike said.

“Yeah.”

“Milo Taylor says people pay thousands of dollars
for just one stamp.”

“He’s a liar or
there’s more damn
fools in the world
than I thought.”

“Yes, but aren’t
they lucky?”

“Who?”

“The damn fools.
At least they have—
something." Spike's
voice became weight-
ed with pity and
tragedy. “They have
their stamps, their
porcelains from the
tenth Ming dynasty,
their match box
] covers. But what
have I? Nothing, nothing! My life is empty. My
empty arms are——”

“Shut up!" Pug sat up listening.

“What’s the matter?"

*[ thought I heard x

Spike listened for a moment. “So do I.
the door."

Pug crossed the room, shot back the heavy bolt,
opened the door a crack. Wind and rain billowed
into the room. He peered out into the darkness.
The door was pushed wider. Then it crashed open
with the weight against it.

A woman, drenched, wild, haggard, fell heav-
lly across the threshold and lay there, moaning
softly.

“Get a load o' this in your empty arms,” Pug
said quietly.

JOHN FAIRLEIGH

Go to

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND

MEN

CHAPTER IV

HE breaking waves dashed high on the low,

sandy shore of Sark Island, an collapsed into

frantic, boiling surf, cutting the tiny bit of

land off from the mainland, enveloping it in
storm and hurricane. 2

At the eastern end of the island, the fantastic scroll
work that surrounded the lookout porch at the top
of the Huddleston's old Victorian farm house was
torn away and hurled crashing against the barn.
Mrs. Parsons! tiny, three-roomed cottage, low and
compact, located midway along the north shore es-
caped the storm's fury, but her garden in all the
lushness of mid-summer was trampled and ruined.

At the Tracy place on the extreme western end,
shutters were torn off, and at the tiny pier at the
foot of the lawn the motor launch snapped its moor-
ings, was picked up by the frenzied sea and hurled
back against rocks, dashed into splinters.

The pier itself with its landing platform used by
the ferry that came across twice a day from Saugus
to bring provisions and mail, stood firm. It was
alone however in its pigmy defiance, for no ferry
would risk the boiling, mountainous sea that sepa-
rated Sark Island from the mainland.

At the Tracy house the roaring outside only threw
into greater relief the strange quiet of the upstairs
room where the woman lay. A lamp burned fitfully
on the dresser—there was no electricity on Sark
Isíand—and the room was hung with shadows
through which the white face on the pillow could
be dimly seen.

Spike and Pug stood at the foot of the bed, and
Mrs. Parsons sat on a chair beside it, her large
capable hands smoothing the tangled black hair,
wiping rain and mud from the face, turning up
the cuffs of the pajama coat that was much, much
too long and large for the frail body within it. |

The woman tossed, muttered, babbled strange in-
coherencies. She seemed to strain, now in some
agony of effort, now in some terror of recoil A
violent fit of shivering shook her.

*Get a hot water bottle and fill it," Mrs. Parsons
said quietly to Pug. When he left the room, she
turned to Spike.

"She's very ill Mr. Tracy. She's cold and yet
I'm sure she has a fever." i

Spike said nothing but went to the window and
peered out into the
frenzied night. She
divined his purpose.

“No use thinking
about that," she said.

* She ought to have
a doctor, though."

“T know, but how
could you get one?"

“I could take the
launch," he said, ig-
norant of the fact
that even as he spoke
it tossed in a mil-
lion splinters on the
boiling sea.

She shook her
head. *You couldn't -
get beyond the breakers. You'd be smashed to pieces.
When you've lived on Sark Island for twenty years
like I have, Mr. Tracy, you'll know better than even
to think of it. We're marooned. We are, every
once in a while."

“Then there's nothing to be done?”

“Nothing, except to keep her warm and quiet if
we can."

“You'll stay tonight?"

She nodded, and turned back to the woman moan-
ing softly in delirium.

Monday night . . . all day Tuesday . . . Tuesday
night. The storm raged. Inside the quiet room the
woman lay for long hours sunk in a coma. Then
she would rouse, try vainly to get up, ery out, sink
back sobbing, babbling. Mrs. Parsons was with her
constantly during the day and slept in an adjoining
room at night. Pug and Spike took turns sitting
beside the bed during the night, three hours each,
alternating like sailors on watch. ý

It was in the early hours of Wednesday morning
just as a murky grayness was beginning to creep
into the room that the gale broke. Gradually Spike,
sitting beside the bed, became aware that there was
no roaring and pounding of wind and surf. He went
to the window and peered out into the graying dawn.
The storm was over.

He came back and sat down again and looked at
the face against the pillow. White, oh so white and
frail, with great, dark circles of tragedy under the
eyes. There were tiny crow’s feet at the corner of
the eyes and the muscles of cheek and throat had
begun to droop. Here was no first flush of youth,
but a woman in the indeterminate thirties. Over
all the face there lay an expression of pain and

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

weariness and beaten, broken effort. And yet with
it all she was strangely, inexplicably beautiful.

At nine o’clock that Wednesday morning Mrs.
Parsons stood on the veranda with Pug and sur-
veyed the ravage of the storm. It was very still
now and her ear was cocked for any slightest sound
from the room upstairs. At the pier at the foot of
the lawn she could see Spike waiting for the ferry
that was laboring toward the landing place on its
first trip since Monday evening.

“Quite a lot of passengers, seems like,” she com-
mented as the ferry drew nearer and she could see
a small knot of figures on the foredeck. “Maybe
the Huddlestons are expecting company.”

The ferry nudged against the pier, and the ferry-
man sprang out with his packet of mail. Mrs. Par-
sons could see him handing some of it to Spike.
Then the little knot of figures on the foredeck
swarmed over the landing platform. An excited
movement of their arms and legs could be discerned
even at a distance. Mrs. Parsons shaded her eyes
with her hand and squinted the better to see.

“Looks like maybe they’re friends of Mr. Tracy.
He seems to know ’em.”

She could see them now, standing in a ring around
Spike. He was shaking hands with several of them
and they seemed to be telling him something. They
stood in confab for perhaps ten minutes. Then the
group broke up. Three of the men went one way
along the north shore and three others along the
south shore. The ferryman climbed into his gently
rocking boat and started back across the bay.

Spike came toward the house, walking slowly, his
forehead wrinkling as he scanned the newspaper he
held in his hands. He mounted the steps of the
veranda and for a moment stood looking strangely
at Mrs. Parsons and Pug.

“Why, Mr. Tracy, whatever is the mat——”

He motioned her to silence. “Come on inside," he
said and led the way into the house. He closed the
door carefully behind them, then faced the two puz-
zled creatures and spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

“The ferryman says that he brought a passenger
over here on his last trip Monday night about seven
—a woman."

Mrs. Parsons' anxious face lighted.
have been—her.
her folks are?"

Spike shook his head. “He never saw her before.
He says she seemed nervous and distraught. ‘All
wild-like and terrible upset' was the way he put it,
and she gave him five dollars to bring her over."

“Did she say who she was coming to see? The
Huddlestons maybe?"

“She didn't say anything. And now—” He paused
and again he eyed Mrs. Parsons and Pug as if he
were weighing certain possibilities.

“Those men you saw down there, the ones that
came over on the ferry, are detectives from the
New York police department. I know some of them.
I—I lied like hell to them, and I expect—” He
paused again and this time the gaze he held them
with was a command. “—and I expect you two
to do the same," he said quietly, and spread the
front page of the New York American before them.

FAMOUS STAMP COLLECTOR
VICTIM OF STRANGE MURDER

“It must
Does he know who she is, where

Prentice Crossley, Owner of Fortune in Stamps,
Found in Fifth Avenue Home, Stabbed in the Back

Linda Crossley, Granddaughter, Missing.
Believed in Long Island Hide-out.

And beside the screaming, ghastly headlines was
a photograph. It was a woman of dark and tragic
beauty, the woman who lay in the room upstairs.

CHAPTER V

NSPECTOR HERSCHMAN, head of the homi-

cide squad was built along the approved lines.

The average citizen would spot him in a minute

for what he was—a Headquarters dick, earnest
but heavy-handed. Having worked himself up from
a patrol beat on the sidewalks of New York, he
knew intimately Willie the Wop, and Mike the Mick,
but his acquaintance with the higher strata of so-
ciety was limited. Stamp collectors, for instance,
were terra incognita to him.

“They don’t even call 'em that," he complained
to District Attorney Tracy as the two of them sat
hunched over the reports, studying them for the
tenth time. “They call 'em philatelists."

“That’s beside the point,” the district attorney said
irritably. *What I want to know is what progress
have you made."

“Well—we got the report from the men I sent out
to Sark Island."

“Yes?”

“They combed every inch of it and they didn’t find

hide nor hair of the woman. And none of the people
on the island did either. We questioned them all—
a farmer family named Huddleston, and a Mrs. Par-
sons and—and your brother."

There was a short silence. The eyes of the two
men met, then dropped swiftly, as if each were some-
what embarrassed by the mutual divination.

“Speaking of your brother," Herschman continued
with forced casualness, “it strikes me he’s—well,
he's a pretty bright fellow."

“At times, not always."

. "Yeah, but—" The sentence trailed off into noth-
ing. The inspector was thinking back to a certain
famous case in which the police department had
covered itself with glory for the astuteness of its
solution. Being at heart an essentially honest fel-
low his spirit if not his flesh blushed when he thought
of the flattering things that had been said about the
chief of the homicide squad, and all the time it was
that young Spike. . . .

Again his eyes met those of the district attorney's.
“I was thinking," he
said, "that it might
be a good idea if we
were to. . =.”

“T have already,”
the district attorney
snapped as if un-
willing to admit it.
“He ought to be here
now. I told him two
o’clock, but of course
he’s never on time.”

At three-thirty
Spike arrived at the
office of the district
attorney. He rushed
in with breathless
cheerfulness, greeted
Herschman genially and then turned to his brother.

“Make it snappy, old dear. I’m on my way to a
squash match up at the Athletic Club. What am I
on the carpet for now—drinking, women or embez-
zlement?"

The district attorney looked uncomfortable, pushed
a box of large, fat cigars toward his brother, tried
to smile and said, *Sit down, Philip."

“Can’t. I'm dashing.” But he took out his case,
lit a cigarette and took a temporary seat on the
corner of the desk. The district attorney cast a
significant glance at the inspector.

“We were—uh—just wondering, Mr. Trac

“Inspector! And after all we’ve been through
together!”

The inspector looked a bit embarrassed, substi-
tuted “Spike” for “Mr. Tracy,” and went on. “We
were wondering if maybe you couldn't —uh—well,
in this Crossley murder case. . . ."

*Oh yes, I talked to your men yesterday. In fact
I spent half the day helping them. We couldn't find
a trace of her. How come you tracked her to Sark
Island?"

“Her picture was published in the Tuesday morn-
ing papers, and the guy that runs the ferry recog-
nized it and tipped us off. Said he took her over
Monday night about seven."

“Well,” said Spike lightly, “she isn't there now.
She probably got hold of a boat somewhere Monday
night and went back to the mainland before the
storm broke and is now—" Suddenly he broke off,
struck by an idea. “I wonder," he said, “I just
wonder." For a moment he was thoughtful Then
he turned toward the district attorney.

“My boat!" he said. “That motor launch I had.
You know it, Richard. It was gone yesterday morn-
ing and I just assumed that it had broken away in
the storm and drifted off. I had to row over to the
mainland in the Huddleston's row boat. That's why
I was so late. I bet she took the launch. Come to
think of it, it seems to me I recall hearing a sound
like a motor starting about eight o'clock Monday
night. I didn't pay much attention to it at the time,
but now I remember.

“Listen,” and he turned excitedly to Herschman,
“send out a description of her—Eleo, twenty-four
toot cruiser, engine number 47926, painted white
with... .

Herschman reached for the telephone, put through
quick commands to his office, set in motion the vast
network of a police broadcast, through radio and
mail and telegraph. As he turned from the tele-
phone, Spike gathered up his gloves and stick and
tamped out his cigarette.

“Well, I'll be getting along. Glad I was able to
help you a bit. If you find the boat let me know.
I had to buy a new one this afternoon.”

“But—but Philip!” The district attorney half rose
from his chair, “we thought you might—perhaps—

ah—

Spike looked innocently blank, and R. Mont-
gomery Tracy floundered. It was Inspector Hersch-
man who finally came to the point in the blunt, flat-

—————————————————
HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

pn a ádHÁMÓÜBEPERRRPRRR RR P € € € €à€€€AAA nn ESE

footed manner in which years before he had pounded
the sidewalks of New York.

*Listen, Mr. Tra— Spike! Here's the idea, You
were a big help on that last case we had. So now
we want you in on this. See?"

*Sorry, Inspector, and thanks for the kind words,
put I couldn't possibly. I’m really much too

usy.

The district attorney snorted in disdain.
what, may I ask?"

*Doing

^ Y'M supposed to be at the Athletic Club this min-
ute. I’m going out to dinner and the theater to-
night, and afterward I'm going to a party from
which I shall probably not recover for several days.
It's that kind."

"Now listen here, Spike." The inspector was
roused, and he bore down upon him in his third
degree manner. As a matter of fact the ordeal to
which Mr. Philip Tracy was subjected in the fifteen
minutes that followed was not entirely unlike some
of the more violent bludgeonings of the police de-
partment. At any rate he emerged at the end of
half an hour only because with a sigh of exhaustion
he gave way—slightly. ;

“All right, all right," he said irritably. “Give me
your damn reports and I'll take 'em home tonight
and read 'em over
while I'm dressing,
and if I'm in any
condition tomorrow
I'll drop in. But I
wont guarantee
anything: It’s going
to be a tough party.”
He reached for the
typed copies of the
reports that lay on
the district at-
torney’s desk, stuffed
them into his pocket
and escaped from
the inquisition.

He hailed a_taxi
in front of Police
Headquarters, but
the address he gave the driver was not that of the
Athletic Club. It was his own town apartment on
East 102nd Street. He leaned back against the
leather cushions, reached a hand into the breast
pocket in which he carried the police. department re-
ports and grinned with satisfaction. Then he
glanced apprehensively at his watch. Pug was to
call him at six.

But the cab made good time and he had almost
ten minutes to spare before the telephone rang.
“Saugus, Long Island, calling Mr. Tracy." And
presently Pug's voice came over the wire.

“Everything O. K. I mean it’s just the same.”

“She conscious yet?”

“No. She don’t toss around and moan so much,
but she ain’t conscious.” K :

*Now get this, Pug. Go out tonight and pick up
any wreckage of the launch that you find on the
beach and bury it. And then if anybody asks you
what happened to the launch, look dumb and say
somebody must have stolen it—that it disappeared
Monday night, before the storm. See?"

“I don't see, but it’s O. K. Anything else?"

“If Im not out tomorrow, call me at the same
time, same place."

CHAPTER VI
A LTHOUGH Spike spent three hours of troubled

LINDA CROSSLEY

concentration on the reports which he had

taken from the district attorney's office the

previous afternoon, the gist of them can be
put down here in a few aragraphs. .

At eight o'clock on Monday morning, June 5,
Kathryn Dennis, for four years second maid in the
home of Prentice Crossley, entered the library for
the daily straightening, and discovered her employer
lying hunched over the library table. The dressing
gown he wore was maroon, and the dark stain down
the back was not immediately noticeable. One hand
was outstretched, the fingers half tensed. She
thought at first he was asleep. Then she realized
that he was dead. .

At her summons the police had arrived some
twenty minutes later. Kathryn and her fellow ser-
vant, Annie Farley, the cook, had been questioned.
They stated that the last time they had seen Pren-
tice Crossley alive had been on the previous eve-
ning, Sunday, about eight-thirty. They: ad a sudden
impulse to attend a Sunday evening movie, so to-
gether they had gone to the library and asked his
permission to absent themselves from the house
that evening. He had assented, and they had left
by the front door. As they went out they had seen
Linda Crossley, granddaughter of Prentice Crossley,
come down the stairs and enter the library.

They had returned to the house at eleven-thirty
and had entered by the servants entrance under the
brownstone stoop. They had not noticed whether
the light was burning in the library. In going to
their own rooms on the top floor of the house they
had used the rear stairway so they had not passed
the door of the library on the first floor, nor the
door to Linda Crossley's bedroom on the second floor.
They had gone directly to bed and had heard no
sounds during the night. In the morning, after
Kathryn had discovered her employer dead, they
had gone to Linda Crossley's room to inform her of
the tragedy. Her room was empty. The bed had
not been slept in.

The two servants had refused to remain in the
house, even with the police there, and had gone
to stay with a cousin of Kathryn Dennis in Yonkers.

The photographs of Prentice Crossley's library
showed a large glass-topped desk in the center of
the room, and behind it a small safe. It was across
the desk that the body was found sprawled. It was
in the safe that Prentice Crossley was reputed to
have kept his famous and valuable collection of
stamps.

The report of the fingerprint experts showed that
there were no fingerprints on the safe. On the
glass-topped desk there were many, mostly Crossley's
own. But along the right edge there were the dis-
tinct marks of a different set of prints—prints which
corresponded exactly with those found in the grand-
daughter's bedroom upstairs, on dressing table, toilet
articles and desk accessories.

A preliminary report from Special Detective Hare
of the homicide squad showed that all of Prentice
Crossley's affairs at the time of his death were in
the hands of his lawyer, John Fairleigh. Fairleigh
at the time of the murder was in Los Angeles at-
tending a legal convention. He had been summoned
immediately, and was on his way back to New York
to confer with the police. He had in his possession
Crossley's will, and the combination to the Crossley
safe. No other persons had been found who knew
une contents of the will or the combination of the
safe.

ETECTIVE HARE also reported that through

the American Philatelic Society and the Ameri-

can Stamp Dealers Association he had suc-
ceeded in locating the stamp dealers with whom
Crossley had transacted most of his business. They
were Kurt Koenig, an independent dealer, and Jason
Fream of the Acme Stamp Company. He had also
located Homer Watson, a private collector of rari-
ties, known in philatelic circles as a keen rival of
Crossley. The rivalry apparently had been friendly,
however, for Watson admitted that he was a fre-
quent visitor to the Crossley home and that he and
Crossley occasionally traded stamps.

None of the three when interviewed could throw
any light on the murder. All agreed to hold them-
selves in readiness to assist the police, should their
knowledge of the Crossley stamp collection be of
any use. The collection was kept, they said, in the
small safe in the library.

The report of the medical examiner showed that
Crossley had died from a deep stab wound in the
back. The examiner was unable to place exactly
the time of death. “Some time before midnight,
June 4, Sunday," was the best he could do in. view
of the fact that many hours had elapsed before the
discovery of the body. “An examination of the
wound shows that the instrument which caused
death was a dagger of some sort about ten or twelve
inches long, of a peculiar triangular shape with
tiny notches at intervals along the three cutting
edges.

The report had been made, of course, that first
morning immediately after the removal of the body,
before a thorough search of the house had confirmed
the astuteness of the medical examiner.

But it was not until Friday morning that Spike
found out about that. It was eleven-thirty when he
appeared at the inspector's office, heavy-lidded and
morose, like one who has drunk too deeply the night
before. He tossed the reports on the desk and sank
wearily into a chair.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I didn’t have a chance to
look at em." He yawned prodigiously. “God, I feel
lousy!”

The inspector surveyed him with a look of pained
irritation as if he were torn between a desire to
humor him and to bust him one on the jaw. Instead
he rose and paced the floor, his hands thrust into
his pockets, his lips nervously chewing an unlighted
cigar. Presently the telephone rang. He picked it

p... scowled . . . listened. . . .

“Tell 'em to go to— No, no, never mind, we can't
do that. Hand 'em out the regular line. We're
working on the case and expect to make an arrest
before night. You know, the old baloney."

He slammed the receiver down. "Newspapers!"
he snapped. "They're yapping again.”

Spike dropped an apparently heavy, aching head
onto his outstretched arms. “What about?" he
asked, his voice muffled. “This Crossley case. If
this fellow Fairleigh who’s coming today tells me
what I think, I’ll have plenty for ’em by tonight.”

“Who’s Fairleigh?” Spike asked sleepily.

“Crossley’s lawyer. Had a wire from him this
morning. He's arriving at noon by plane and we're
going to meet him at the Crossley house. He's bring-
ing the old boy's will with him, and he's going to
open the safe. I'm having three of these stamp
birds up too, to check up on this collection of -
Crossley's that supposed to be so valuable."

Herschman continued his pacing, talking more
to himself than to the unresponsive figure sprawled
over the desk. “If the girl's the beneficiary . . .
plenty, plenty . . . and with that bayonet. . . ."

“You sound kind of maudlin yourself," Spike cut
in, “sorta the way I feel. The war's over. We've
beaten up our bayonets into fenders and—Oh, my
head!"

The inspector ignored what he felt was an obvious
bid for unmerited sympathy and went to a large
steel cabinet on the opposite side of his office, un-
locked it, and brought out an object carefully
wrapped in gauze. He laid it on the table and
gingerly lifted the top layer of gauze.

It was a bayonet of peculiar design—a bayonet
that was still shining and polished, a foot long, its
three triangular blades serrated at intervals.

Spike raised his head, looked at it. “What’s
that?" he asked with sleepy indifference.

“That, my boy, is what killed Prentice Crossley.
We found it wiped clean as a whistle, upstairs under
some clothes in a chest."

Spike's head dropped into his arms once more and
he hunched his shoulders into a more restful po-
sition.

* And if the will shows that Linda Crossley is sole
beneficiary of her grandfather . ." Herschman
left the sentence unfinished, but there was a certain
excited anticipation in his tone.

Spike snorted softly, but presently when the in-
spector began making sounds of departure, he raised
his head once more.

“I guess,” he said between yawns, "I'll go up there
with you—to the Crossley place. Maybe if I got up
and moved around a little bit it would clear my

head."
CHAPTER VII

“There is no definite record of the number of
these stamps that came off the press of the
Official Gazette and were sold through the
wicket of the Georgetown post office, but we
do know that today there is in existence only
one of this issue, the British Guiana, 1 cent,
1856. This tiny bit of paper that originally
sold for 1 penny is today valued at—”

ATROLMAN Finney dropped the book into his
Pè and stared wide-eyed at his vis-a-vis,
Patrolman Smith.

“Holy Mother Mary and Joseph!” he gasped.
“Would you believe it now, what it says here?” He
picked the book up again and scanned the last line
carefully to make
sure there was no
mistake. “. . . is
today valued at:
thirty-two thousand,
sand, five hundred
lars!"

Smith who up to
this time had taken
no part and little
interest in Finney's
reading aloud, sud-
denly straightened
in his chair.

“Thirty-two thou-
sand five hundred
dollars!" Finney re-

eated as if to assure

imself as well as
his companion. Then he continued reading slowly:
«|... has for the past eight years, been in the
possession of that well-known collector of stamp
rarities, Prentice Crossley." He slammed shut the
slim red-bound volume he had taken from the book-
case and looked incredulously at Smith.

“Well, whaddaya think of that? Thirty-two
thousand, five hundred dollars for a measley bit of
a stamp, and him owning it." At the word of “him”
he jerked his head toward the large glass-topped
desk that stood in the center of the library. Before
it stood a massive, straight-backed Jacobean chair,
empty.

*Nuts," Smith commented succinctly.

“Nuts!” Finney repeated in emphatic agreement.
“Any bird that’d pay $32,500 for one stamp is
nuts.

RICHARD TRACY

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

a a eee

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN
E ——— — M M ——

“Off his nut," Smith elaborated.

“Completely off. Just nutty.”

Having exhausted the synonyms in their vocabu-
lary for mental unbalance, the two patrolmen sank
into a contemplative silence. The easy chairs of the
library were very easy and they had been sitting in
them for four hours. Presently the two heads be-
gan to nod .. . nod . . . lower... . E

Smith came to with a jerk and gave his companion
a hasty shake. “Beat it! Someone’s coming." _

Finney jumped to his feet, straightened his uni-
form and quickiy resumed his post in the front hall
just outside the library door.

It was John Fairleigh.

“Yes, sir, we're expecting you, sir," Finney as-
sured him as the visitor was shown into the library.
“The inspector just called a few minutes ago and
said he was starting on his way and he'll be here any
minute."

For a moment after he crossed the threshhold of
the room Fairleigh stood very still, his eyes travel-
ing slowly from chair, to table, to window, to book-
case. It was as if he were making sure it was the
same room he had known in his years of dealing
with Prentice Crossley.

A tall man, firmly built, with a crisp gray mus-
tache and gray-blue eyes that were hard and at the
same time filled with compassion.

He took off his hat, unstrapped the brief-case he
had brought with him, and looked through the
papers it contained. There were deep, troubled
wrinkles between his eyes. p

The inspector and the district attorney arrived
ten minutes later. In their wake trailed a sleepy
young man who seemed chiefly concerned with gain-
ing the soft haven of an easy chair.

“You have with you the documents we requested?”
the district attorney inquired.

Fairleigh nodded. “Yes, I went directly from the
landing field to my office, and then came up here.”

HE three men seated themselves, and Fairleigh

reached for his brief-case lying on the window

seat, but the district attorney held up a re-
straining hand.

“Before we go into that, Fairleigh, perhaps you
can tell us something about Crossley himself. We've
been able to get surprisingly little information about
him except in a— well, a professional way. I mean
we have plenty of newspaper files telling of his
activities in the local stamp club and his collec-
tion of stamps, but there's very little we know or
have been able to find out about the man himself,
his personal life and his friends and associates. You
should be able to help us there."

A slow, crooked smile twisted Fairleigh's face
and he shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not so sure
about that. You see, he didn't have any. For fifteen
years, ever since he retired from business, he has
had just one passion—his stamps. In the last five
years his health has been very poor and he hasn't
been able to get out much. Outside of a few fellow
collectors and one or two stamp dealers and myself,
I don't suppose ten people have come to the house in
these five years."

*But you have been here frequently?"

“Oh, once or twice a month. Sometimes oftener.”

“May I ask you to tell us just what was your
business relationship to Mr. Crossley. I know you
were his lawyer, but that term can cover a variety
of services.”

“As I said before, Mr. Crossley retired from busi-
ness fifteen years ago. He had made plenty of money
in the chemical business, so he pulled out while he
still had it. He invested it in various ways and
then turned these investments over to me to manage.
I'm a sort of legal and financial steward.”

“Well then, as such you must know a great deal
about the more personal side of Crossley’s affairs?”

“As much as there is to know, which is very
little. Outside of his stamp collection, I don’t be-
lieve he had an interest.”

“How about his granddaughter?”

Fairleigh did not answer immediately. His eyes
sought the window giving out onto a tiny enclosed
garden at the back of the house. Presently he spoke,
choosing his words carefully.

“Mr. Crossley’s attitude toward his granddaugh-
ter was—strange. There was on the surface little
of the ordinary signs of tenderness and affection
in their relationship, but at bottom he was—I think
he loved her—desperately.” He placed a curious
emphasis on the last word.

“I suppose you know,” the district attorney said,
“that she has disappeared.”

Fairleigh nodded, his eyes still gazing out onto the
little back garden, his voice low and slightly strained.
“And I suppose you infer from that disappearance
that she—”

“We're inferring nothing just at present. We
would like to know if you have any idea where she
may have gone.”

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

“Not the slightest.”

“But you knew her as well as Crossley, did you
not?”

“My meetings with him were purely of a business
nature and I seldom saw her. She had a very gen-
tle, retiring disposition.”

“But do you know of any friends to whom she
might have gone, who might be hiding her?”

Fairleigh shook his head firmly. “I know none
of her friends. As a matter of fact I doubt whether
she had many. Her grandfather absorbed her
completely.”

“She was very devoted to him?”

“Very.”

“To the exclusion of everyone else?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

The district attorney switched to another tack.
“The main purpose of our meeting, Mr. Fairleigh,
as you know, is to see the will of Prentice Crossley.
You have it with you?”

For answer Fairleigh reached for his brief-case
and drew out a document bound in stiff blue paper.

“FTS not a complicated will,” he said flipping
through the three sheets of legal foolscap which
composed it. “Mr. Crossley had a sufficient in-

vestment in his former chemical company and in
first mortgage real estate bonds to yield a yearly
income of between fifteen and twenty thousand dol-
lars. I may say that originally his income was much
larger, but he chose to use part of his capital in the
purchase of stamp rarities which I can assure you
are very expensive. He has paid between thirty
and forty thousand dollars for a single stamp.”

The inspector and the district attorney looked
roperly astounded and Fairleigh smiled. ''Col-
ectors, you know, are that way. To you and to me
a stamp is only an old, faded bit of paper but to
collectors it holds all the romance and adventure of
life. It’s difficult to understand their psychology.
but there it is. However, this stamp collection busi-
ness does have its more practical side. All together
just at a guess, I would say that Mr. Crossley in-
vested between two hundred and three hundred
thousand dollars in stamps. In the course of twenty
years, though, the value of this investment has in-
creased. Last year when he had his collection offi-
cially appraised, the valuation put on it was
$400,000.”

“But what we want to know,” Herschman inter-
rupted impatiently, “is who gets it all. Let’s read
the will.”

“But that’s just what I’m doing. I’m enumerating
the various assets of the estate that are enumerated
here,” and he thumped the paper. “There are his
investments in chemicals and real estate; there is his
stamp collection; there is this house.” He paused.

“Yes, but who gets ’em all?” Herschman persisted.

“There is a small bequest to myself. Outside of
that everything is left to his granddaughter, Linda
Crossley. There are no other beneficiaries. The
will is very simple.”

Inspector Herschman who had been holding him-
self rather stiffly in his chair, slowly relaxed with
satisfaction. He turned toward the easy chair
slightly outside the circle made by himself, the dis-

trict attorney and the lawyer, and flung a “what-
did-I-tell-you" glance at the young man therein. But
the young man was apparently asleep.

The district attorney looked slightly incredulous.
Being a lawyer he enjoyed fine technical complica-

tions. Simplicity baffled him. He reached for the
document which Fairleigh had been holding, but the
lawyer had already started to fold it up.

“Let me have a look at it,” he said.

Fairleigh continued to fold. “But really there’s
nothing to see. As I explained, it is a very simple
will, and I’ve given you a complete if somewhat in-
formal paraphrase of the whole thing.” He thrust
the will back into his brief-case and started to adjust
the buckles. The district attorney bridled.

“Just the same, Mr. Fairleigh,” he said, “I think
I would like to see it for myself.”

Fairleigh seemed to hesitate. Then he handed it
over. For several moments there was silence in the
library as the district attorney with the inspector
looking over his shoulder read the document. When
he had finished it, he laid it out on the table, smooth-
ing the creases carefully.

“There’s just one thing you didn’t mention,” he
said to Fairleigh. “This paragraph here.” His
finger indicated the line and he read it aloud. “And
on my friend and adviser, John Fairleigh, I lay the
heavy burden of the guidance of my granddaughter,
Linda Crossley. Guidance not only in her financial
and legal affairs, but in her personal life. To him
I bequeath the onerous task of saving her, if pos-
sible, from the consequences of her own indiscretions
and to him also I bequeath $50,000 in recognition of
his steadfast refusal to betray the trust which I
have had in him.”

The district attorney paused. When he spoke
again his voice was icy with sarcasm. “Do you con-
sider $50,000 a ‘small bequest’ Mr. Fairleigh?”

“Small in proportion to the balance.”

“Tt seems to me that this paragraph that I have
just read indicates a much greater degree of in-
timacy with Crossley and with his granddaughter
than you have led us to believe."

Fairleigh nodded. “Yes, it does look that way."

*Just what does it mean, then? Have you been
deliberately mis-stating the—"

“No,” Fairleigh interrupted sharply, “I have mis-
stated nothing.”

“Then what does this mean?” The district at-
torney persisted.
* , . . in recogni-
tion of his steadfast
refusal to betray the
trust which I have
had in him.'"

“I have managed
Mr. Crossley's busi-
ness interest for the
last fifteen years as
I told you. I have
held a power of at-
torney. I have never
misused that
power."

But the district
attorney was not
satisfied. “What does
this mean?" point-
ing again to the paragraph in question. “‘. . . the
onerous task of saving her if possible from the
consequences of her own indiscretions.’ What does
that mean?”

The hard blue eyes of Fairleigh met the direct
gaze of the district attorney.

“I haven't the slightest idea,” he replied quietly.

CHAPTER VIII
l* the hall outside the library Patrolman Finney

KURT KOENIG

did his best to be entertaining, but in this he was

not altogether successful. Two of the three

visitors—the tall thin one and the tall fat one—
sat stifly in their chairs ranged against the wall
and looked very solemn and bored.

But the short round one, the one with the slight
German accent and the elegant dandyish haber-
dashery, and the blue eyes that crinkled up at the
corners, wasn't at all solemn. He actually chuckled
when Finney related the story of the versatile gen-
tlemen of British Guiana in the year 1856. he
other two frowned at this unsuitable levity, but the
short round one seemed not to notice their dis-
approval.

“Thirty-two thousand, five hundred dollars," he
repeated at the conclusion of Finney's story. “But,
my friend, that is nothing, nothing." His fat little
hands with dimples where there should have been
knuckles brushed aside the $32,500 as one would
brush aside a fly. Then his airy manner changed
suddenly.

"You want to see something?" he asked in a low,
conspiratorial tone.

Finney nodded. Cautiously the short round man
looked up and down the hall to make sure that there
were no spies lurking in the shadows of stair and
wall. He cocked his ear as if listening for the ap-
proach of stealthy footsteps. Then he reached in-
side his coat and slowly drew forth a wallet and
extracted therefrom a tiny bit of paper.

“There! Look!” he half whispered.

Finney looked. His eyes popped.

“Holy Mother Mary and Joseph!”
ward and examined it more closely. Blue against
white. “Deutsches Reich.” Simple circular design.
But it was the overprint in a deeper blue that held
his gaze. “50,000,000,000 M."

“Fifty billion marks!" he repeated in awe.
much is that in American money?"

*Well, if you use the pre-war valuation of the
mark at 23.8 cents it amounts to $11,900,000,000.”

“Holy Mother!” The sheer magnitude of the sum
reduced Sven binaphemy to its simplest terms. “But
aren’t you afraid to carry it around with you, j
loose like that?” Josue

The little round man struck a brave attitude.

He bent for-

“How

————M———————————————————————

HE KILLED A THOUSAND

MEN

——————————

“No,” he said, “I’m not afraid. In fact—" He
paused, peering into the depths of his wallet. “In
fact I carry three or four of them with me usually
—as souvenirs—for my friends. Permit me.”

With a ceremonious bow he presented his open

palm. On it reposed four of the little blue bits of

aper with the deeper blue overprinting. He se-
lected one, pressed it upon the patrolman. “With
my compliments, my friend, I beg of you." The
crinkles around the blue eyes deepened.

Finney grinned uncertainly. “Say, what the
hell?”

The little round man laughed aloud this time, the
merry laugh of one who is enjoying his gentle joke.
Then he explained. “You see, my friend, in Ger-
many after the war, they had inflation, very dread-
ful inflation. First the value of the stamps was
doubled, then trebled, then on up, up, up into the
millions, the billions. This one here was the highest
they issued. A monstrosity! A curiosity! You can
buy all you want of them these days at my shop for
two cents each.”

“Well, PII be—" Finney laughed at the memory of
his recent awe before a mere two-cents worth. “Say,
listen here, who are you and these two birds over
there? The D. A. told me he was expecting three
men and to let ’em in and keep ’em here until he
called for ’em, but he didn’t tell me the names.”

The little round
man performed the
introductions. The
tall thin one was
Homer Watson, a
private collector, and
the tall fat one was
Jason Fream of the
Acme Stamp Com-
pany, and he himself
was Kurt Koenig.

“Well, is my face
red?" Finney in-
quired rhetorically.
* Here I'm tellin' you
all about your own
business, and you
the guys that the
D. A. is havin’ in to give the lowdown on Crossley’s
stamps.”

“Not quite all" Koenig corrected. “There are,
you know, a few more stamps in the world beside
the British Guiana, one cent, 1856.”

“Yeah, and I understand Crossley had ’em.”

“He had many of them, very valuable ones too.”

“Like for instance?” $

“Well, there are the Mauritius, if you’re interested
in stories.” 3

Finney indicated that he was and Koenig was
about to launch into the tale when the door from the
library was opened.

As the three stamp experts entered at Hersch-
man’s summons, the sleepy young man in the easy
chair roused slightly, shifted his weary weight, and
then settled once more into a doze, his head sunk
on his chest, his face shielded by his hand.

In the strained quiet atmosphere of the room,
there were few words of greeting exchanged. Fair-
leigh, knowing what was expected of him went im-
mediately to the safe. He reached for the knob,
but before he touched it he suddenly withdrew his
hand and turned to Herschman.

“I suppose you have—ah—fingerprints, you
know?”

“Of course,” Herschman replied impatiently. “The
first morning.” E

Fairleigh waited for him to go on but the in-
spector preserved a discreet silence. Finally the
lawyer set to work. The safe was not a large one—
it stood about three feet high—but apparently the
combination was complicated. It was almost five
minutes before he swung the door open.

ERSCHMAN moved the reading lamp closer to
the edge of the glass-topped desk and switched
on the light so that its rays shone full on the

front of the open safe. Rows of squat, thick, leather-
bound books with names embossed on the back in
gold: “United States"—'"France"—"British Em-
pire"— "Air Mail" In the upper right hand corner
there was an inner steel compartment.

“These are the stamp albums,” Fairleigh ex-
plained, pointing to the books. “The more valuable
stamps were kept in here." He indicated the inner
compartment. “It has a combination too.”

He set to work at the tiny knob on the door. In
a few moments it was open. He rose from his
stooping, posture and stood back away from the
safe.

The district attorney nodded to the three stamp
men—the tall thin one, and the tall fat one and the
little round one. They gathered round the safe,
lifted out the squat, thick books, drew forth from
the inner compartment, trays containing tiny square

steel boxes, placed them on the glass-topped desk.
Fairleigh, the district attorney and the inspector
withdrew to the far end of the room to allow the
three experts to work without interruption.

The quiet of the room was broken only by the
hum of traffic on Fifth Avenue at the front, and by
the occasional domestic sound that drifted in through
the windows at the back from neighboring apart-
ment houses.

Presently the three experts put away their tiny
glasses, laid down their tweezers, flexed the cramped
muscles of their backs, bent for more than an hour
over the glass-topped desk. The district attorney,
the inspector and Fairleigh rose and joined them.

It was Fream who acted as spokesman. His voice
was shaken as one mindful of his painful duty in
breaking bad news, but at the same time conscious
E: the drama of his disclosure and making the most
of it.

“The Crossley collection,” he said, “has been looted
of its finest treasures. It is impossible just now in
so short a time to check the entire collection, to
give a total estimate of the loss. But we have been
able to ascertain this morning that more than
$85,000 worth of stamps are missing.”

He picked up a sheet of paper on which he had
made some notes. “There are missing the follow-
ing: the Mauritius, two-penny ‘post office’ valued at
$17,500; a thirteen-cent Hawaiian ‘missionary’
catalogued at $2,500; the nine-kreuzer Baden, 1861,
with the color error worth $11,000; the six-real
Spanish, 1851, also with a color error worth $12,500;
the French 1849, one-frane, ‘tete-beche,’ catalogued
at $10,000, and—”

He paused.

“And the British Guiana, one-cent, 1856, the most
valuable stamp in the world, worth $32,500.”

CHAPTER IX

HE Buick sedan streaked through the green

| and white tiled Holland Tunnel hundreds of

feet below the surface of the Hudson River.

Close behind—but not too close—followed the
Cadillac roadster.

Across the lush, dank green of the salt marshes of
Jersey, through the back streets of Newark, into the
open country west of Irvington. It was more than
an hour before the lead car slowed up, turned off the
main street of a quiet little village on the western
edge of the New Jersey Forestry Reservation and
bumped over a rutted, unpaved road. It stopped
finally before a small farm bungalow set in several
acres of truck garden.

The driver got out and went into the house. The
second car drove on by, turned down a side road
and parked behind a low shelter of trees and bushes.

Through the lattice of the protecting shrubbery
Spike could see the bungalow with Fairleigh's car
parked in front of it. He waited for five minutes.

hen Fairleigh came out and got into his car and
started off. Spike switched on his engine. He fol-
lowed well in the rear, until it was apparent that
the lawyer was merely retracing the route he had
come. Spike turned and went roaring back to the
little town on the edge of the Reservation.

As his car turned down the rough, rutted street,
it bucked, backfired, gave several convulsive jerks,
died—directly in front of the little farm bungalow.
He got out and raised the hood, took a wrench from
the tool box, and gave a few desultory pokes at the
ailing engine. - Then he scowled and flung the wrench
from him in disgust. He looked about, scanned the
horizon. As his eye fell upon the bungalow he
seemed to have an idea. He opened the front gate,
repelled the advances of an over affectionate dog
and knocked on the door. A pleasant, comfortable
gray-haired woman opened it and listened sympa-
thetically to the story of his misfortunes.

“Why sure, Mister," she said, *you're welcome to
a wrench if we got one. My husband ain't here just
now, but Eddy mebby could help you out. He's
right handy around machinery. e's round by the
barn now."

She came out onto the tiny stoop and called, and
presently the boy appeared, a stocky well built lad
with a pleasant, grinning face.

“Eddy, the gentleman's car’s broke and his wrench
is too big. See if you can fetch one of those smaller
ones we used to carry in the back of the Ford."

The boy disappeared in the direction of the barn.
He returned in a few minutes with a wrench and
followed Spike out to the car. He watched with
interest while Spike set to work, peering, poking
under the engine hood.

“What’s wrong?" he inquired, “fuel pump?”

Spike looked up, a smudge of grease on his nose,
“No—ah—I don’t think so. It’s—it’s the steering
gear."

The lad giggled. “Then you're a-lookin' on the
wrong side, Mister. Steering gear's over here." He
indicated the opposite side of the engine.

“Oh—ah—yes, so it is." Spike strove valiantly to
cover his confusion, as he raised the opposite side
of the hood, and engaged in more desultory pokings
under the inquisitive gaze of the boy.

*How do you like these new synchro-mesh trans-
mission gears Cadillac’s got this year?" the boy in-
quired as he stood off and admired the stream lines
of the car. “They make the shift any easier?"

*Oh—much easier, much, very much easier."

“Yeah, but don't you think with a two-plate
clutch you—”

Spike held up an admonitory hand and straight-
ened his bent back. “Listen sonny,” he said, “just
what are you? A professional . . ."

AIRLEIGH arrived at his Nassau street office at
three o'clock and immediately called his secre-
tary into his private office.

It was a bit after four when a young man of lazy
well-being slouched into the outer office of Schwab,
Fairleigh & Morrison and cast an enchanting smile
at the telephone operator.

“I want to see Mr. Morrison," he said.

*Mr. Morrison's out of town. He's gone to
Europe. She smiled.

“In that case," he said, “I won't wait.” He sat
down, inched his chair a bit closer to the switehboard,
gazed in quizzical speculation at the operator. She
was pretty and she was paying more attention to
the audacious stranger than to the lights flashing
on the board.

“You know,” he said, and his voice had a low, con-
fidential tone, *your face seems awfully familiar.
Haven't I seen you some place before?"

She giggled. “Oh, that’s what you tell all the
girls."

“No, but really I mean it. Haven'tI. . ."

They had dinner together at a little restaurant on
a side street in the Thirties, a discreet, quiet little
restaurant with no orchestra or dancing. The girl
was a bit disappointed.

*Oh, I like to talk better," the young man pro-
tested. “I like serious things—you know like poli-
ties and what you read in the newspapers, and
problems like—well, like unemployment and crime.
Now you take, for instance, this Crossley crime case
in the newspapers. . . ."

LATE moon rose over the horizon, bathed Sark

Island in silver, washed it with irridescent

waves. Spike stretched himself gratefully in
the porch swing and lit a pipe, while Pug cleared
away the remnants of a late supper. It had
hoen almost ten before he had gotten back to the
island.

“Thank God," he said, “she lived in Jamaica and
not the Bronx."

* Who's she?"

*A dame I picked up."

* Ain't you got enough dames on your hands with-
out goin' out and huntin' trouble?"

“Maybe I've got too many. How's she today?"
He sobered suddenly and nodded in the direction of
the upper room.

“Same, only maybe a little quieter. Mrs. Parsons
Rays sic ain't got so much fever as she did yester-

ay.

“Talk any?"

*Not much and not so's you could understand any-
thing."

For a moment Spike was thoughtful. “Sit down,
Pug. I've got to get things off my chest."

He told the story of his two days' adventures. His
interview with Herschman and R. Montgomery
Tracy, the reports, the two hours he had spent in
the Crossley library.

“I pretended I had a sleeping hangover. That was
a lot of crap, of course. I told Richard I had slept
through it all there in the library. I wanted to get
away to follow Fairleigh. I didn’t like the way
he acted. I think he was lying. I think he knows
a hell of a lot more about old Crossley and the
Granddaughter than he lets on. So I followed him
after he left. He didn’t know it, of course. He
drove out to a little town west of the Forestry Reser-
vation in Jersey. Stayed about five minutes in a
house on the edge of town and then beat it back to
New York. I stuck around.” He paused and pulled
meditatively at his pipe.

“What did you find out?” Pug prompted.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

eee

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

“Nothing much. Family living there by the name

of Polk. A Mr. and Mrs. Polk and their nephew. I
found most of it out from the boy. I managed to
strike up a conversation with him. Pretended my
car was busted and he stuck around while I tinkered
with it. He said Fairleigh was ‘Oh, just a man
Uncle Henry has some business with.’ He didn’t
seem to know just what the business was, but he
said Fairleigh came out every two or three months.
Never stayed long though. `

“After that I went back to town and up to Fair-
leigh’s office. I played the dumb cluck and took the
telephone operator out to dinner. Telephone opera-
tors always know things.”

“Well—did she?”

Spike paused, took a long pull at his pipe.

“She said that about two o’clock last Monday
afternoon, Linda Crossley phoned and asked to speak
to Fairleigh’s private secretary. The secretary was
out. Then she asked to speak to Fairleigh himself.
When they told her he would be out of town for
two weeks she had hysterics over the telephone.”

There was a short silence, both of them musing
on the implications of this revelation. Then Spike
spoke. “Go upstairs and bring down her hand bag.
It’s in the bureau drawer in her room.”

In a few minutes Pug was back with the bag—a
plain black envelope, its fine seal leather showing
the effects of rain and mud. They had opened it
that first night, searching for a card, a bank book,
a letter, something that would identify the wild,
sodden creature who had stumbled over the doorsill.
But there had been nothing helpful. A vanity case,
about ten dollars in bills and coin, a few other in-
consequential items that are to be found in every
woman’s purse. The only thing unusual was a
tiny square steel box. But it had offered no initial,
no address, no hint of identity, so they had paid
little attention to it.

Now Spike reached into the purse and brought
it out, held it in the palm of his hand. His eyes met
Pug’s and they were troubled. He pressed a tiny
spring at the side, just as he had seen other tiny
springs pressed that morning in the Crossley library.

he lid flew open. He brought his flash to play on
it, the better to reveal what was inside. He and
Pug bent closer.

“Funny,” Spike said, “how it keeps its color all
these years." OK :

It was a stamp . . . a three-masted sailing ship

. a Latin motto . . . black on deep magneta.
. . . It was the most valuable stamp in the world
—the British Guiana, one cent, 1856.

CHAPTER X

PIKE flung him-
self into a chair
and gazed out

over the bay,
his brows twisted in
a troubled scowl.

Finally he turned to

Pug.

“Well, what do
you think?”

“Same as you.
Only I ain’t afraid
to admit it.”

“What should we
do about it?”

“Better phone
up your brother and
tell him.”

“You mean throw her to the lions—eh?”

“Well, I could think of other things to call your
brother besides a bunch o' lions, but I guess that’s
what it amounts to."

“You are a louse, Pug."

“Maybe,” Pug agreed without rancour.
then again, I ain't no damn fool."

“And I am?"

Pug nodded, rose and began clearing away the
breakfast dishes from the wicker porch table. At
the door leading into the house he paused. “But
then," he added slowly, "there's worse things than
bein' a damn fool."

Spike left the veranda and went for a walk along
the smooth, sandy beach. One hand held his pipe,
the other was jammed into his pocket fingering a
small square steel box. He had put it there last
night after he had taken it from the woman's purse.
Now he was tempted to hurl it out into the low,
whitecaps that curled up the beach. They would
wash it away, carry it out to sea, bury it in sand
Perhaps that would be best. Still—It was not alone
the thought of $32,500 that stayed his hand.

He left the beach and wandered inland, followed
the meanderings of a tiny creek through woods and
meadow. It was almost noon before he returned to
the house. Pug met him at the door.

“Mrs. Parsons says to come up quick. She's talkin’

“But

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

—sense, you know. She's conscious.”

Upstairs as Spike stepped over the threshold it
seemed a different room from the one he had left
in the gray, chill dawn three days before. The fitful
eerie shadows of flickering lamplight were gone, and
the place was bathed in sunlight. The air too was
different. It was as if a haunted spirit, babbling
in delirium had at last found refuge in conscious-
ness.

She lay now in the bed, quietly, her eyes closed, her
hand resting in Mrs. Parsons'. She looked infinitely
worn and beaten, and yet strangely enough she
seemed at peace, like one who ceases to struggle
and surrenders, regardless of what the surrender
may entail.

S SPIKE approached the bed her eyes opened.
She looked at Mrs. Parsons and a faint, weak
smile curved her lips. She spoke, almost in a

whisper.

“You are so—kind. Who—”

Mrs. Parsons leaned over and brushed the tangled
black hair off the brow. “Don’t fret yourself with
questions now," she said gently. “Wait til you're
feeling a bit stronger."

*But—but I want to know who—where—”

“I’m Mrs. Parsons and you're in Mr. Tracy's house
on Sark Island, and you've been mighty sick for five
or six days now, and we've been looking after you.
This here's Mr. Tracy."

Spike drew up a chair and sat down beside the
bed. She shifted her eyes slowly, looked at him,
said nothing.

“You came Monday night," Mrs. Parsons went on.
“You must have lost your way in the storm.”

“The storm . . ." The woman echoed the word
weakly. “Oh yes—the rain and the wind—and be-
fore that Saugus. . . ." She seemed to be laboring
to remember and the effort was exhausting. She
closed her eyes.

*Just you rest a while now," Mrs. Parsons com-
manded gently. She motioned Spike out of the room
and lowered the curtain that the light might not
shine in the woman's eyes. Later she took up some
food, rich meat broth and an egg whipped up in milk.
In the early afternoon, soon after lunch she sum-
moned Spike once more. She met him outside the
upstairs room and closed the door softly behind her
as she stepped into the hall.

“She’s lots better," she said in a low voice. “I’ve
explained as much as I could to her and she insists
on seeing you."

*Did you—did she say anything about—about
what I showed you in the paper?"

Mrs. Parsons shook her head.

When Spike entered the room for the second time
that day, the woman was lying propped up on pil-
lows. Her eyes were open and they met his steadil
as he sat down beside her. Her voice was still wea
but even.

*Mrs. Parsons has told me how very kind you've
been," she began. “I’m grateful and I'm sorry I've
been such a trouble to you."

Spike tried to brush away her protests of grati-
tude.

“I feel much stronger now and I don’t want to
trespass on your kindness. I think by tomorrow I'll
be able to go—" She paused. It was as if she
could find no word with which to finish the sentence,
as if the realization had suddenly come to her. For
a moment a sort of panic seemed to lurk in her eyes.
Then once more she was in command of herself. She
went on, but not quite so steadily.

“T have a friend—and if you will call him by
telephone, he will come here tomorrow—and get
me.

*But you're much too weak yet," Spike assured
her. “And anyway there's no question of ‘trouble’
or ‘trespass.’ Forget about everything except just
resting quietly and getting back your strength."

*No—no, I must see my friend. You must call
him for me. I must go—away from here."

“T couldn't allow it. You've been desperately ill.
Mrs. Parsons has told you that. You must stay here,
in this bed, in this room for a week, several weeks."

*No—I must go—tomorrow." She was getting
tired and she closed her eyes wearily.

Spike looked at her thoughtfully for a few mo-
ments, hesitated, then spoke.

“But why," he said softly, “must you go away
from here—tomorrow?"

She opened her eyes and returned his steady gaze.
“Because you have been kind, and if I stay I will
bring you—trouble."

“T told you there was no question of ‘trouble.’”

“I don’t mean that kind—inconvenience. I mean
—real trouble. Please—call my friend. Tell him
Linda wants him. Ask him—to come.”

“Very well,” he said rising. "What's his name
and how shall I get in touch with him?"

“He’s in the telephone book—the Manhattan book.
His name is Koenig. Kurt Koenig."

CHAPTER XI

‘WT WAS,” said the large lady with the bosom as
she peered into the cavernous depths of her
hand bag, “very romantic. You see, my
grandfather was living in Allegheney at the

time and my grandmother—but, of course, she

wasn’t my grandmother yet. She was pa plain

Hattie Beamis—well, she was living back in Med-

bury, Mass., and my grandfather wrote to her and

said that if she didn’t come west right away and
marry him, he’d jump in the river and drown him-
self, but the letter got lost and my grandmother
didn’t get it till three years after they were mar-
ried—my grandfather didn’t jump in the river after
all—and then it turned up when they were living
in Chillecothe—my grandfather ran a feed store
there—and of course they had a big laugh over it
and my grandmother always kept it, and me being
her namesake she handed it on down to me when
she died along with her Battenburg tablecloth and
her crocheted bedspreads, and I never thought much
about it till the other day Mr. Simpson—he’s in
business with my husband up in Yonkers, they’re in
the plumbing business—well, I happened to be tell-
ing Mr. Simpson about it and he says that only the
other day he was reading in the paper about just

such a letter, you
know, somebody’s
grandfather and
grandmother, and
they took it down to

a stamp dealer and

he looked at the

stamp on the en-
velope and said it
was worth twelve
hundred dollars,

20?

This monologue
carried on without
pause or punctua-
tion suddenly ended
with a triumphant
“There!” as the
large lidy with the bosom at last managed to extri-
cate an old and yellowed envelope from the debris of
her handbag.

“There!” she repeated, and handed the envelope
over to the little round man behind the counter. On
her face was the broad satisfied smile of one who
has just engineered a remarkable coup.

The little round man picked up the envelope,
looked at the stamp and then handed it back to

er.

“It’s the 1851, three-cent, dull red, type I. It is
worth—"

He paused slightly and the bosom of the large
lady heaved with expectation.

“It is worth twenty-five cents."

The large lady gasped and sputtered. “But—but
Mr. Simpson said—”
“This is a poor specimen and on cover. Unused

this variety sells for around $3.50.”

“But—but it’s very old. Mr. Simpson—”

“It is not the age that counts, it is the rarity.”

“But 1851—that’s very old.”

“But very ordinary. There are hundreds of that
issue still in existence."

“But Mr. Simpson said—” She was indignant now.

“Pardon me, madam, but if you would rather
take the word of a plumber instead of a stamp
dealer, perhaps you had better offer this for sale to
Mr. Simpson himself.”

The large lady sailed out, wrath fighting with
disappointment. Mr. Simpson had said . .

The little round man sighed in relief and ap-
proached the tall, blondish young man who for al-
most half an hour had been consulting the catalog
at the other end of the counter. For a moment the
young man let the stamp dealer look him square in
the face, before he spoke. There was no flicker of
recognition in Koenig’s eyes. Young gentlemen who
slouch in easy chairs with their faces half-hidden
in their hands in dimly lighted libraries are not
easily identified later.

"I have a collection here,” the young man ex-
plained somewhat apologetically. *Not a very valu-
able one, but it belongs to my young nephew and I
thought I’d like to get an estimate on it.”

Koenig smiled as he picked up the grubby, bat-
tered little album. “You are not a collector your-
self?” he asked.

The young man shook his head.

“I did not think so. The real collector is not in-
terested in price. Price is nothing. It is the thrill of
owning, of having, of discovering.” There was subtle
reproof although his tone was gentle. He turned
the pages of the album, smiled with kindly tolerance
at the miscellaneous collection.

“He likes air mails, I see.”

“Yes, they’re his passion. By the way, there’s

ur c cT ————————Á— ———— H——M MC

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

—— ——————————————M

some new Russian air mail stamp he’s awfully keen
about. If you've got it, I’ll take one and—" He
broke off. N

Koenig was staring. His little fat hands holding
the album trembled slightly. For a moment he said
nothing. Just looked at the page before him. When
he spoke his voice seemed to stick in his throat.

“Your nephew—he—where—where did he get
that one?" His finger pointed at a stamp—black
on magenta, the rough design of a sailing ship, a
Latin inscription.

*Oh that," said the young man lightly. "That
one I put there myself, today. It was—given to me."

“Given—to you? Who--who?" His voice rose
fiercely, anxiously.

Suddenly the young man’s manner changed. He
stood facing the stamp dealer now, eyeing him
steadily. Behind him the door to the shop was half
ajar. He kicked it shut with his foot, but still faciag
Koenig, he turned the key, put it in his pocket. Then
he approached the little round man. .

“A woman gave it to me," he said quietly.

*A woman? Lind—" Koenig broke off abruptly,

realizing too late his involuntary betrayal. A look
of horror and fear crept into his eyes. A

Spike nodded. “Yes, Linda. Linda Crossley. Pve
come to take you to her.”

CHAPTER XII

ACK in the quiet room again with the evening
sun slanting through the western windows,
and the woman on the bed sleeping, but quietly
now. No troubled frenzy of delirium. No ter-

rorized recoil from the menacing phantoms of fever.

At the foot of the bed stood two men—Spike and
Koenig, waiting. And as they waited they continued
their watchful scrutiny of each other. From that
moment, three hours before when they had faced
each other over the counter, and that cry, half fear,
half joy had burst from the lips of the stamp dealer,
distrust had sprung up between them. :

They had said little to each other. It was as if
each feared the most casual conversation. They
had gone into the back of the shop where Koenig
had his private apartment, and very briefly Spike
had related the events of that stormy Monday night
when Linda Crossley had first stumbled across his
threshold. Now they waited. The woman slept
quietly. Once Mrs. Parsons came in to make sure
that nothing was needed. Koenig sat on a chair be-
side the bed, and in the gaze that he turned on the
figure under the white counterpane there was deep
affection and anxious concern.

At last she stirred. He grew tense, leaned for-
ward, touched her hand. She opened her eyes and
saw him. His arms were suddenly around her, and
she was sobbing softly, quietly, like a weary child
who has at last reached a safe haven. i

Spike went to the window and for a long time
stared out into the dying day, his back to the two
figures at the bedside. He could hear them murmur-
ing—gentle, comforting words from Koenig; soft
sobbing syllables from the woman. Presently she
lay back against the pillows, her hand in Koenig’s.
She closed her eyes, rested gratefully from emotion.
Then she began to speak, slowly with long pauses
between sentences as if rallying her pitiful strength.

“I must tell you—what happened. You and the
gentleman over there. You must know—and he has
a right to know. He has been good—so good to me.”
She paused, then went on.

“It was that night—I don't remember exactly.
It was so long ago—and 1 have lost track of time.
The maids had gone out and we were alone in the
house—he and I. I went out for a walk in the park.
I was out a long time—I don't know how long, but
it was a long time. It was late when I came back.
I went by the library door and it was open. I could
see him. He was—"

HE broke off, covered her eyes with the back of
her hand, pressing in hard as if to shut out a
memory or horror.

“He was—I thought he was—asleep. There was
only the reading light on the desk and it was dim.
His head was forward on his arms. And one arm
was stretched out—and I could see—in his hand the
little box—open. It was—it was a stamp—a very

valuable one, the most valuable in the world, and
I thought if I could steal it from him—I could
make him—"

She broke off again. But now she seemed to grow
strong. She opened her eyes and looked into Koe-
nig's. *I thought I could use it—could make him
tell me—something I wanted to know. So I took it.
I stole it."

Her voice rose almost to shrill defiance. “I left
the house and I spent the night at a hotel. I didn’t
use my own name. I thought he might try to find
me. I was going to hide it where no one would know
but me. And then I was going to force him to tell
me—tell me what he’s kept from me, what I must
know if I’m to go on living—what I’ve got to know.
And then the next day before I had decided just
what I was going to do—I saw—it—in the papers.”

Her voice had sunk away again into a whisper.
A slight tremor seemed to shake Koenig, but it was
a tremor of tension relieved.

She went on. “I suddenly realized—what people
would think. I was afraid. I tried to get hold of
Mr. Fairleigh. Then I seemed to lose my head. I—
thought of Saugus. I remembered what that woman
had told me. You said it was silly. I guess it was.
I don't know. I can't remember clearly. I know I
got on a train but when I got to Saugus I went
crazy. I thought I must get away. There was an
island. I could see it from the mainland, and a man
with a ferry. He brought me over. There was a
storm—rain, wind. I wandered around—I don’t
remember—I—that’s all—”

HE little strength she had was exhausted,

drained from her. Her hand lay weak and help-

less in Koenig’s. Her eyes were closed. She
seemed like one dead.

But presently she opened her eyes again, looked
up at Koenig.

“Do you—” she whispered. “Do you—believe me?
Do you believe—he was already—dead—when
went in there—to him?”

“Liebling!” In the quaint old endearment there
was reassurance, passionate, tender. She smiled
faintly and her fingers pressed his.

A half hour later downstairs in the library the
two men faced each other.

“You did not tell her,” said Koenig and his voice
was hard, “you did not tell her—you believe her?”

Spike gave no answer. His eyes faltered, fell be-
fore the accusing gaze of the other man.

“Do you?” Koenig persisted. “Do you believe her?”

“I—I don't know."

Koenig was thoughtful. Then he spoke again in
the same guarded tone. "Did not the papers say
that the police had searched this island?"

Spike nodded.

*Did you see the police officers when they were
here?"

“Yes.”

“Then how—”
“T lied to them.”
A pause.

“Why—why did you lie to them?”
“Because,” Spike said quietly and this time his

DEAS Koenig’s squarely, “because I'm a damn
‘ool.

Koenig’s round face broke into a grin, and tiny
wrinkles sprayed out from his smiling eyes. In some
strange fashion the barrier of distrust between them
seemed suddenly to melt away.

“Good!” he said warmly. “So am I a damn fool.
We shall get along, my friend.”

CHAPTER XIII
THINK,” said Spike, “she should stay here.
I Try and persuade her.”
“She must stay," Koenig agreed. “I shall
command her and she will do as I say. In the
first place she is too weak to be moved, and in the
second place—” He broke off, unwilling to complete
the sentence.

“I know. The police. . . ."

They smoked for a while in silence, sprawled at
ease in wicker porch chairs, and for the first time
Spike had an opportunity really to study his guest.

Koenig looked forty-five, perhaps fifty, but an ex-
ceedingly well-preserved fifty. His skin was firm
and rosy, and he had, even in repose, a vigorous
liveliness. There was, too, about him a sartorial
elegance that somehow seemed incongruous. His
clothes were obviously the product of an excellent
tailor, and there was quiet taste in tie and socks and
shirt. His shoes only were a discordant note. They
were comfortably old, looked as if they had been
made by a village cobbler, and they needed a shine.
Spike noted with an inward gleam of amusement
that the heels were slightly high, as if their wearer
had sought thus to mitigate Nature's shortcomings
in the matter of height.
Presently Spike took up the conversation again.

“Tell me something about Crossley. Who do you
think might have . . ."

Koenig shook his head. “I can imagine no one... ."

“Then he was one of those lovable old gentlemen
without enemies?"

*Oh, I would not exactly say that. He had no
enemies that I know of, but he was not—lovable.”

Spike flung away a half-smoked cigar and reached
for the more familiar cigarette.

“You know, Koenig, I'm terribly in the dark, and
I feel that I am—that I have a right to a little
enlightenment. More than a mere right. If Linda
Crossley is to stay here, I think I could hold up my
end of it a bit better if I knew a little more about
her—and old Crossley."

Koenig was thoughtful for.a moment. "Yes," he
said, *you're right. Perhaps I should tell you."

His cigar had gone out and Spike held out his
lighter. In the glow of the tiny flame he could see
that Koenig's face was sober and troubled.

“I have known Prentice Crossley for three years,”
the stamp dealer began at last. He spoke with just
enough of an accent to lend a certain charm to his
voice. “I met him shortly after I came to this
country the second time. I lived in America many
years ago before the War. I was in business here,
textile importing. After the War I remained in
Germany. I made money, not a lot, but when I had
enough for comfort I quit. I thought I would travel.
I had always liked New York so I came back here.
It was just about the time of the International
Stamp Exhibition. I had always been interested in
stamps and knew a lot about them. I even had a
small collection of my own. I started it when I was
just a boy in school in Munich. I collect ‘howlers.’”

“ ‘Howlers?’ ”

“Stamps with crazy mistakes in them—you know,
ships with their flags blowing against the wind, and
animals with their anatomy against Nature.

“Crossley owned at that time a whole pane of the
twenty-four-cent U.S. air mails with the airplane
printed upside down in the middle of the stamp.
These are among the most valuable ‘howlers’ in the
world today. Of course, we would never think of
actually calling them ‘howlers.’ They are much too
grand. But just the same that is what they are,
and I wanted to see them when I went to the stamp
exhibit. I knew that Crossley had some of them,
so I went to his exhibit. He was there and we got
to talking. That’s how we first met. Stamps are
like babies and dogs. They are an open sesame to
conversation.

“T ATER I decided to settle down in New York—to
make a business of what had formerly been a
hobby, so I set up a stamp shop, and in the

course of the last three years my work has kept me

in frequent touch with Prentice Crossley."

He paused again letting his thoughts drift back
silently over that association.

“Three years," he repeated, “and yet I can tell
you so little about him. In all that time I do not
think we ever talked about anything but stamps.
His health was very bad and it was difficult for him

to get about, so I

usually went to his

\ house when he sum-

moned me. Once or

twice a month, some-
times oftener. He
used me principally
as his agent at
stamp auctions, and
through my Euro-
pean connections I
was able to arrange
certain trades for
him with German
and French collec-
tors.
*He was not—not
exactly— Well, what
is the use of beating about the bush just because he
is dead. He was not a pleasant man in any way, my
friend. He was harsh and stubborn and he had an
implacable belief in his own rightness in everything.

For fifteen years he has lived shut up in that house

with not another human interest in his life but his

stamps. They were an obsession with him, a mania.

He cared for nothing else on earth. He pored over

them like a miser with his money bags. If he had

no enemies, at least no enemies capable of murdering
him, neither had he any friends."

“What about this fellow Watson? I understand
he and Crossley made occasional trades."

“They did. And their meetings were like an armed
truce. There was a bitter feud between them."

*How'd it start?"

*Oh, that was years before I knew either of them.
Watson was not a collector then. He didn't know
a thing about stamps. His people came from Lock-
port, New York, and one day in an old trunk be-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

ned

longing to his mother, he found a letter written from
Lockport in 1846. That was before federal postage
was adopted in this country and each individual
post office used to issue its own stamps. This one
from Lockport happens to be very valuable. I think
it is catalogued now at something like eight or ten
thousand dollars. Watson, because he knew Crossley
was a collector, took it to him and asked him what
it was worth. Crossley realized its value, of course,
but he pretended that it was not worth much, and
offered to buy it for ten dollars, and Watson let it
go. Afterward Watson found out the real value of
the stamp.

“That incident started him studying stamps, hop-
ing that some day he would get a chance to get back
at Crossley. Then he got genuinely interested,
started collecting himself. Now he is almost as bad
as Crossley was. He has a remarkable collection.
He came into money about ten years ago, I under-
stand, and has been able to indulge his taste for
valuable stamps. He and Crossley were the two
greatest rivals in this country in the collection of
rarities. And they hated each other like poison.”

“And I suppose,” Spike said, “Crossley had a
number that Watson wanted.”

“He would have given his eye-teeth, as you say,
for the British Guiana one cent. And, of course,
he wanted back the Lockport 1846. On the other
hand, he had the one- and two-penny Mauritius
‘post office’ on cover, worth something like $50,000.
Crossley would have given his eye-teeth for that.”

“And there were, I suppose, others in the Crossley
collection that Watson coveted?”

“Many of them. The nine-kreuzer Baden, 1861;
the six-real Spanish with the color error; the 1849
French 'tete-beche'—to mention just a few."

“All of which," Spike remarked quietly, “are now
missing. Does that suggest nothing to you, Koenig?"

Koenig turned on him a face that was slightly
puzzled. “What do you mean?” .

“I should think it would be plain enough."

“Are you suggesting that Watson—" Suddenly
light seemed to dawn. The puzzled expression disap-
peared and he laughed. r

“No, no, my friend, you are wrong there if you
are thinking that Watson murdered Crossley and
took his stamps.”

“Why?” Spike challenged.

“I am afraid you do not understand about these
great stamp rarities. They are all known, cata-
logued, kept track of by dealers and other collectors
all over the world. They know just who owns which
and what. Any change of ownership is published
in a hundred philatelic magazines from New York
to Pekin. It would be safer, far safer to steal the
Kohinoor than to steal a famous stamp. The Kohin-
oor could be cut up
and sold in unrec-
ognizable pieces.
You can steal money
and bonds and jew-
els and profit by it.
But not stamps.
And remember that
Watson is a collec-
tor and knows all
this."

Spike was thought-
ful and a bit dashed.
“But couldn't—No,
of course not. You’re
right. I never
thought of it that
way.” He reached »
for another cigarette and lit it from the glowing
butt he held in his hand. For a while the two men
smoked in silence.

“How about the granddaughter?
told me about her."

“I know," Koenig said quietly. 1

“You seem to—ah—to be on a bit more intimate
terms with her than with the old man."

“Yes, she is very dear to me, and she trusts me."

“T could see that.” y

“T have been her friend. Almost the only friend
she has had for so long.” ;

“Her grandfather was not her—friend?”

“He was her—" He broke off, hesitated. *But
perhaps I had better tell you from the beginning.
] used to see her sometimes when I first went to
Crossley's house. He depended on her a lot. She
was a sort of secretary to him, wrote letters for
him, made telephone calls. She was so lovely to look
at. I found myself looking at her when I should
have been looking at stamps. And so sad. It
touched my heart. Her eyes were so sad.

“I tried to lighten them, to bring a little pleasant-
ness into her life. Sometimes after I was through
with Crossley I would linger in the drawing room
across from the library and talk to her. We grew
to be friends. She told me how lonely her life was,
how empty, shut up with the old man. He was very

You haven't

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

demanding. He wanted her constant attention. He
cared for her, I suppose, in his selfish, strange way,
but her life with him was no life for a girl."

*Girl? She seems hardly that."

“I know. She is a woman really. She is thirty-
four, but I always seem to think of her RS
nineteen." Koenig's voice had softened as he talked
of Linda Crossley. It was infinitely tender, not with
the tenderness of a lover, but with the deeper, more
protecting tenderness of a father.

“You knew her when she was—just nineteen?”

“No. I have known her only three years."

*Has she always lived there in that gloomy old
house with her grandfather?"

“Always. Her parents were killed in a railroad
accident when she was a baby."

*Had she no other friends besides you?"

*A few acquaintances, yes. But no real friends.
Friendship, you know, does not thrive on gloom
and harsh, decaying age. He discouraged it. He
was too selfish to wish for her any world of her
own. He ruined her life."

Koenig spoke the damning accusation quietly
without rancour—a simple, hard statement of fact.

“Tell me something," Spike said, “something I've
been wondering about ever since this afternoon
when she talked to us. She said something about a
woman. She said, ‘I remembered Saugus and what
that woman had told me." He paused and tamped
out his cigarette. “What did she mean? Who is
‘that woman?’” He sensed rather than actually saw
a sudden stiffening in Koenig. There was a long
pause before Koenig answered, and when he spoke
his voice was low, restrained, as if he were suddenly
on guard against something.

“That I cannot tell you.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“I mean—I cannot tell you.”

Spike considered this refusal in silence for a few
minutes. Then he spoke again.

“But perhaps you can explain this: she kept
repeating ‘what I must know,’ ‘what I’ve got to know
if I’m to go on. Something her grandfather knew,
some information he had that she wanted. What
was it?"

Koenig's cigar had gone out again and he was
sitting, staring now into the darkness. He did not
look at Spike as he answered. “That too, my friend,
I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

Another long pause.

“Because it is not mine to tell. It is—hers.”

"[ see." Spike hesitated. Then: “Had it—any-
thing to do with that clause in Crossley’s will?”

“T have never seen Crossley’s will. What did it
say?”

“Oh, something about putting upon Fairleigh the
task of—I think the exact words were, ‘saving her
from the consequences of her own indiscretions.’”

Koenig made no answer.

“Well?” Spike said at last.

“Well what?”

“I mean, has that clause in the will anything to
do with this other thing that Linda Crossley must
know?”

“T am sure,” Koenig replied, “that I am not in a
position to know what was in Prentice Crossley’s
mind when he wrote his will.”

This was plainly an evasion, but Spike did not
feel that he could press the point further. Instead
he picked up the new lead inadvertently suggested
by Koenig.

“How about Fairleigh? Do you know him.”

“No, I have never met him.” Koenig tossed away
his dead cigar and rose. “I have never even seen
him,” he added, “but I dislike him extremely.”

“Why?”

“Because he is a man of honor.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No—thank God.”

“But you—keep confidences?”

“I have my own code."

His round face broke into a gentle smile as he
looked down at the younger man. “It is a strange
code, perhaps, but—” He paused, then shook his
head. “No, it is too late now to go into that tonight.
Some other time perhaps. Good-night.”

CHAPTER XIV

N Monday Spike went into New York. He
was obsessed by a restlessness for which he
could not entirely account. Perhaps, he argued,
he needed diversion.

Monday night he went to a show alone. There
was a fight at the Garden on Tuesday. He tried to
think of a possible companion, but in his strange,
erratic frame of mind he could find no one who quite
fitted. Again he went alone. He left before it was
half over. On the way home he stopped in at a bar
and had a drink and bought an early edition of the
Wednesday morning Tribune.

He leaned up against the counter and sipped his
drink and scanned the paper. The Crossley murder
no longer rated front page space. It was inside now,
ignominously rubbing shoulders with the advertise-
ments. And just a couple of sticks at that, full of
the things which Inspector Herschman and District
roruey Tracy usually said when they had nothing
0 say.

Spike stuck the paper in his pocket and called for
another drink . . . and another. . . . A taxi driver
took him home, put him to bed. It was ten the next
morning before he wakened. His head ached and
his mouth felt furry, but a cold shower banished
these slight ill effects of the previous night's indul-
gence. It would not, however, banish that vague but
persistent restlessness.

He dressed, fixed himself coffee and toast on the
kitchen table. After breakfast he lit a cigarette and
slumped down into an easy chair. So what now?

He didn't know. His gaze wandered about the

room. The paper he had bought the night before
was lying, folded and crumpled just where it had
fallen from his pocket as he was assisted to bed
by the obliging taxi driver. He picked it up, yawned
and turned pages. Old stuff. What he needed was
tomorrow's news. He had already read today's news
last night. Modern tempo was confusing.

His eyes strayed down a column. He read in a
desultory way, skipping, skimming.

It was on the fourth inside page, dwarfed beside
a seven-column automobile ad that he found it. Or
perhaps it would be better to say chanced upon it.
For it was just that—chance. And it was only the
last line that really caught his attention. But after
he had seen that last line, he went back and read
carefully from the beginning.

“Mrs. Deborah Ealing of 143 West 110th St. was
found dead in her apartment last night with a
stab wound in her back. She had apparently been
dead some hours. No property was missing and
nothing was disturbed in the apartment. The apart-
ment house is near the Spanish district and police
expressed the view that the killing was part of a
vendetta which has been raging in that district for
some weeks. The body of the woman was discovered
by her daughter, Maysie Ealing, 33, when she came
home from work late Tuesday evening. The daugh-
ter is employed—"

Spike thrust the paper from him and grabbed
the directory, looked up a number and reached for
the telephone.

“H’ya baby," he said when presently there came
a response. His voice was as vapid as his words.
"Remember me? You know, the guy you were out
to dinner with the other night. ... Oh yeah, I know.
Don't rub it in. I'm just one of a crowd... . Come
on now, dearie, no wise cracks. You know I can’t
ake it....

HE conversation drifted on. There was some

talk of a date. There were frequent long waits.

The party at the other end was apparently
interrupted. It was after one of these long waits
that he sprang it—oh so casually, as if it had just
popped into his head.

“Say, did you read the paper this morning? You’re
right in the news, aren't you? . . . I bet you got
about ten cops hanging round you down there, and
you're giving them all the eye, aren't you? . . .
Oh, she did? ... Well, I wouldn't think she would

be...

At last he laid the telephone back in place and
snatched up the paper once more, read the final
unfinished sentence.

“The daughter is employed by the Nassau street
law firm of Schwab, Fairleigh and Morrison.”

He rose and reached for his coat. There was a
decisive set to his jaw. He was thinking of what
the telephone operator had just told him.

“|... She's Mr. Fairleigh's private secretary. She's
only been working here six months. . . ."

He was remembering too what she had told him
that evening he had taken her out to dinner.

*, . . and on Monday afternoon just when it was
all over the papers about him being killed, Miss
Crossley calls up and wants to speak to Fairleigh's
private secretary, a dame named Ealing, and when
I says, 'Miss Ealing's out, she says . . ."

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

ce —— — — M ————————————————————

CHAPTER XV

HE headlines of the afternoon papers leaped
up at the world in black glaring type.

EALING KILLING LINKED
WITH CROSSLEY MURDER

“The murder of Mrs. Deborah Ealing, of 143 West
110th St., erroneously reported at first as a. Spanish
vendetta killing, is now being definitely linked by
the police with the murder of Prentice Crossley,
wealthy stamp dealer and . . ." y

Spike skipped the rest of the lead, his eyes jump-
ing quickly down the page until he found the para-
graphs he was seeking.

“The report of the medical examiner places the
time of death ‘sometime after noon Tuesday.’ The
murder weapon was a bayonet with a triangular
blade containing tiny notches, and is exactly like
that used in the killing of Prentice Crossley. It was
found wiped clean, and hanging with some other
war relics, a German and an American helmet, on
the wall of the back hall. Maysie Ealing, the daugh-
ter, says that it was a war souvenir sent to them
by her brother who was killed in France, and always
hung in that particular spot. * Y

“Rigor mortis had already set in by the time the
medical examiner was summoned, and it was not dis-
covered until some hours after the body was taken
to the morgue, that
the fingers of the
right hand clutched
a tiny piece of pa-
per. This has been
definitely identified
by Jason Fream of
the Acme Stamp
Company and Kurt
Koenig, two of the
stamp experts ori-
ginally called in by
the police in the
Crossley case, as the
six-real Spanish is-
sue of 1851, valued
at $12,500, which
was stolen from the
Crossley collection the night Crossley was mur-

dered.”
CHAPTER XVI

UMBER 143 West 110th St. was an old
N building, but there was none of the crumbling

sordidness of the tenement about it. Its halls

were dark but clean. Its five stories housed
ten families. This much could be ascertained from
the mail boxes in the vestibule. The Ealing apart-
ment was on the third floor in the front. E

Spike mounted the stairs. Before the door leading
to the third floor front he paused a moment before
knocking. His brows were knit in heavy lines of
indecision. It was as if he were trying to make up
his mind about something, as if he could not quite
bring himself to do what he was about to do. Finally
he raised his hand and knocked. Number 143
boasted no such elegancies as electric bells.

For a long time there was no answer. He knocked
again. Presently the door was opened by a woman.
She was middle-aged and comfortably plump with a
scrubbed, red peasant face and a coronet of heavy
blonde hair. She eyed the visitor hostilely and de-
manded his business in a heavy Swedish accent.

“Miss Ealing,” he explained, “I want to see her.”

“Miss Ealing can’t see nobody. She iss sick. Her
modder iss just dead.” ‘

She pushed the door to but Spike caught it before
it slammed. i

“I quite understand the circumstances,” he said
in a voice politely hushed, suavely considerate of
the presence of grief and death. “But I must insist
on seeing Miss Ealing. I’m—I’m from the district
attorney’s office.”

At the reference to the district attorney, the wo-
man’s hostility increased, but she ceased to push
the door.

“But she vas dere all morning,” she protested.
“You asking her questions all morning and now she
iss tired.”

“I know. I'm sorry, really. I wish I might spare
her the distress of further intrusion, but it can’t be
helped. I shan’t keep her long.”

he woman melted a little. She was uncertain
just how to deal with this gentle but firm gentleman.

e wasn’t like those others, those heavy-jawed fel-
lows who had come with the policeman in uniform
that first night when Maysie Ealing had rushed
screaming into the hall. This one was different.

She hesitated, looked at him suspiciously and
finally gave in. She motioned him to enter and she
closed the door behind him.

“T tell her," she said. “You wait.
down now."

When she had gone Spike had a chance to look
about him. He was standing in a little hallway, one
end of which led into the living-room. The woman
had disappeared through a door at the back leading
evidently to another room in the rear. His eyes,
gradually getting used to the dim light, travelled
about the tiny passageway. There was an old-
fashioned hat rack and umbrella stand, a telephone
desk without a telephone, nothing of note. Nothing,
that is. except the sinister decorations of the wall
immediately facing the entrance door.

There were two helmets, the shallow, wide one of
the doughboys of 1917-18, the deep, clumsy one of
the German soldiers. They were hanging side by
side in strange fraternization, mute witnesses of
the ultimate emptiness of hate. Beneath was a row
of tacks driven into the wall at intervals of two or
three inches, forming a little shelf about twelve
inches long. It was empty now, but Spike noted it
carefully. That would be where the dagger-bayonet
was found.

He stepped quietly into the front room. It was
small and shiny with hard, varnished oak woodwork.
The furniture was worn, but there was no spot of
dust showing, and the curtains were crisply clean.
There were pots of green plants at the windows and
in one corner a couch with an old fashioned afghan
crocheted in bright colors. It was a room of no
partieular taste or period, and yet somehow it man-
aged to convey a feeling of homely comfort.

Spike looked about him and wondered where it
had happened—where the old lady had sat—in what
chair she had been when the daughter had found
her. But the room gave back no answer.

He crossed to the opposite wall and surveyed a
group of family photographs. Babies, indistinguish-
able as to sex or disposition. A sturdy lad of pos-
sibly twelve, and a little girl of eight or ten, playing
with a dog. The girl again in a fancy dress costume.
Another one of the boy, a bit older this one, probably
just entering high school.

And then there was the large picture apart from
the others. The boy grown into a young man in a
corporal's uniform, a pleasant looking young man,
with frank, humorous eyes and a big generous
mouth, and hair that waved slightly. The frame
was of silver and there was engraving across the
bottom. Spike bent closer to read it.

David Ealing
116th Infantry—29th Division—A.E.F.
Missing in Action—Samogneux, October 1918.

Fes a long time Spike stood looking at the photo-

She iss lying

graph, his brows furrowed in a perplexed frown.
Where . . . Was it...

He was still looking at it when he heard a
slight sound behind him. He turned. Maysie Ealing
stood in the doorway leading from the back room.

For a moment there was no sound in the room
while the two of them confronted each other, the
young man and the girl Not exactly a pretty girl
and not really a girl any longer. She looked as if
she might be about the same age as the dark woman
who lay in the upper room on Sark Island—Linda
Crossley.

The blonde of her hair was faded and her small
piquant mouth was bracketed with two tired lines.
She was thin, too thin. And yet there was about her
a feeling of strength, of firmness of will. Her eyes
were deeply shadowed now with grief and horror
and physical exhaustion, but her chin was firm. She
bore a strong resemblance to the soldier photograph
on the wall.

It was she who spoke first in a dead, colorless
voice. “You are from the district attorney's office?
You wanted to see me?"

“Yes; may we sit down?"

She looked at him, uncertainty and suspicion in
her steady gaze. “You were not—down there this
morning?"

*No, I know. The situation is a bit unorthodox,
and although I'm not officially connected with the
district attorney's office I—ah—assist at times on—
ah—special assignments. You see I'm the district
attorney's brother? He drew forth his visiting card
and handed it to her.

She took it and looked at it for a moment without
comment. Then she motioned him to a chair and
sat down herself in one opposite.

“There are two points, Miss Ealing," he began,
“that were not entirely cleared up this morning."

She sighed heavily, wearily. "Do I have to go
over all that again?"

*No. I just want to ask you two questions." His
hands fumbled for his cigarette case. Then hastily
remembering the circumstances he shoved the case
back into his vest pocket. But she had seen the
gesture.

“It’s all right," she said. “Go ahead and smoke."
She stretched forth her hand. “Ill take one too.

Being silly isn't going to do any good to anyone."

He lit her cigarette and his own. She inhaled
deeply and settled back more easily in her chair as
if in the curling wisps of smoke she found relax-
ation at last from the intolerable strain of the last
twenty-four hours.

And then Spike shot the first question at her.

“Why did you go to work for John Fairleigh six

months ago?"
. Her hand raising the cigarette to her lips paused
in mid-air. Her eyes were quickly veiled with down-
drooping lids so that no one might read the expres-
sion therein.

“Why—why should I not?”

“I only wondered if there was a reason—a special
reason?”

“No, of course not. It—it is a good position.”

“Will you keep it now—after this?”

“Of course—if I want to.”

“And do you want to.”

“Yes—well, for a while anyway. Things are so
upset now—I don't know—”

, He waited a bit before he posed his second ques-
tion. But when he did finally he shot it at her
quickly.

“Tell me, has Linda Crossley been in this house
within the last two days?"

For a moment there was no answer. Slowly she
rose from her chair. She held on to the arms as if
to steady herself. Her lighted cigarette dropped to
the floor. Her face was white, contorted with the
effort to erase all betraying expression. A valiant
effort but futile. Stark fright and horror stared
from her eyes. She swayed. She grabbed for the
back of the chair, missed it. She fell heavily before
he could catch her. She had fainted.

For a long time Spike waited in the living-room
after he had carried her into the rear bedroom and
summoned the Swedish woman. Just before he left
he stood once more before the picture of the young
man in uniform, Gradually a look of satisfaction
came into his eyes.

He was just remembering where he had seen that
face before.

CHAPTER XVII

HE paucity of real evidence weighed heavily

on Inspector Herschman's mind and he felt

that life was not entirely moulded to his
. heart's desire. This feeling of depression was
intensified by the presence in his outer office of six
newspaper reporters. He knew that if he went out
and faced them they would ask all sorts of childish,
troublesome questions. *Do you know who killed
Prentice Crossley and, if not, why not?" and “Who
killed Mrs. Deborah Ealing?" and *Why the hell
don't the police find out?"

,And since Inspector Herschman had to admit to
himself that he didn't know the answer to any of
these questions he instructed his secretary to say
that he was in conference and could see no one.
Having thus entrenched himself behind the world's
most palpable prevarication, he sat in his office,
gazing out of the window with troubled eyes, fiddling
with the letter opener and chewing on an unlit
cigar.

It was thus that Spike found him. He took one

glance at Herschman's face and cried out in deep
concern.

"Inspector, you look terrible."

p ee terrible.

ood! at do you say to coming up to
place for a drink? I’ve got Y car outside” my

For the first time that morning Inspector Hersh-
man brightened. He rose and reached for his hat.

Three hours later he was brighter still.

“It’s a cinch,” he confided as he supported himself
fraternally on Spike’s shoulder. “Just an open and
shut case. We got ’em all but that girl—that one
that swiped your boat. But she’s the one we want
to get but we don’t know where to find her. We
don’t know where she is. She’s gone. Just an open
and shut—”

_ Spike assisted him to his feet. Outside he put him
into a taxi and gave the driver the Inspector’s home
address.

For more than an hour after Herschman had left
Spike sat in deep thought, sorting out the informa-
tion which he had just extracted from the unwitting

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN
000 faa eee

and slightly foozled police inspector.

Here, boiled down to undramatic statements of
fact, were the results of many hours of patient police
investigation, two quarts of Scotch and a conscience
so unscrupulous as to take advantage of a man
when he’s drunk.

In reading them, one should keep in mind the
fact that according to the reports of the medical
examiner Prentice Crossley was killed “some time
before midnight” on Sunday, June 4, and that Mrs.
Deborah Ealing was killed “some time after noon”
on Tuesday, June 13.

Jason Fream, stamp dealer: Says that on night
of June 4 was at church and at home with his wife
and daughter. This corroborated by wife and daugh-
ter. Says that on June 13 was at work all day at
Acme Stamp Company. Corroborated by four em-
ployes.

Kurt Koenig, stamp dealer: Says that on the
night of June 4 he was at his apartment alone. No
corroboration. Says that on afternoon of June 13
he left his shop in charge of assistant and spent the
afternoon in the Publie Library at Forty-second
Street examining the Benjamin K. Miller stamp
collection in the third floor corridor. Absence from
shop corroborated by assistant, and two attendants
at the library recall seeing him in upper corridor
during the afternoon but unable to give exact time.

Homer Watson, stamp dealer: Says that on the
night of June 4 he was home alone with three ser-
vants. Servants corroborate this. Says that he spent
June 13 on the road between Poughkeepsie and New
York. Was up there on business, left in his car at
nine in the morning and did not get back to New
York until 6 p.m. Driving his car himself and
alone. Had car trouble and was delayed for four
hours in Yonkers. This corroborated by mechanic
in Yonkers who worked on his car from twelve
to four.

John Fairleigh: Says that on June 4 he was at
the Alhambra Hotel in Los Angeles at a legal con-
vention. Hotel register at Alhambra shows that he
checked into the hotel on Sunday morning, June 4
and checked out Tuesday morning June 6. Says that
on June 13 he left his office at 11:30 in the morning
and did not return until the next morning. Said he
spent the afternoon in private law library of a
friend on Riverside Drive. No corroboration of this,
as the library was in a private house from which all
servants and even the friend himself were tempor-
arily absent for a month. Fairleigh however in
possession of key to the house and could let himself in.

PIKE read and re-read the notes that he had
assembled from Herschman’s wandering conver-
sation. Not a good clean double alibi in the
lot... holes, fulla holes . . . any one of 'em. . . .

He crumpled the paper and flung it with a dis-
gusted gesture into the wastebasket and started
pacing the room. But presently he retrieved the
crumpled wad and smoothed it out on top of the
desk. His forehead knit into a speculative frown
as he studied again that last paragraph. He folded
it carefully and put it in his pocket and reached for
his hat. In the street below he climbed into his car,
and headed for the Holland Tunnel.

An hour later he drew up in front of the little
bungalow on the outskirts of the Forestry Reserva-
tion, the bungalow at which John Fairleigh had

aid a brief visit while Spike had lurked in the
Bushes five days before. The blinds were down
against the glare of the afternoon sun and the
place looked deserted. He mounted the steps
and rapped. A wo-
man opened the door.

“Mrs. Polk?” he
inquired with the
engaging voice of a
salesman using the
approach approved
in the selling man-
ual.

“Yes, sir. I’m Mrs.
Polk, and—" She
looked at him with
dawning recognition.
“And youre the
young man who was
here last week, with
your car broke down,
ain't you."

Spike acknowl-
edged the identifica-
tion, elaborated it. “My name's—Smith. I'm a friend
of Mr. Fairleigh's. I'm wondering if you could help
me find him. I've just been down at his office in
New York and they didn't know where he was but
they said that he might be out here. I'm awfully
anxious to get in touch with him."

*Well now, I'm right sorry, Mr. Smith, you had
all that trip for nothing, because he ain't here."

Mr. ‘Smith’ tch, tched with vexation.

MAYSIE EALING

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

_“No,” the woman went on, “he ain’t been here
since—" She broke off in sudden confusion, the
pleasant amiable smile with which she had greeted
her visitor replaced by an expression of misgiving.

“Since Tuesday,” ‘Mr. Smith’ finished the sentence
for her and looked a little puzzled at her sudden
change of countenance.

“Oh, then you know about him bein’ here Tues-
day afternoon,” she said and there was relief in her
voice.

“Oh yes,” lightly, “he told me he was coming. Well,
sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Polk. I'l be run-
ning along.”

CHAPTER XVIII

: HE thing I can’t understand," Spike said as
he settled himself for an after-dinner smoke,
“is why the hell?”

Koenig opposite him refused a cigarette
and produced his own cigar, clipped and lit it and
gave a few experimental puffs.

“Yes?” he said.

“Well, why the hell did Fairleigh tell that cock-
and-bull story to the police about being at a law
library on the afternoon of June 13, knowing all
the time that no one could possibly substantiate his
story for the simple reason that it wasn't true?"

“Fairleigh, as I told you before, is a man of
honor."

*A damn fool if you ask me."

“Tt frequently amounts to the same thing."

*But why not admit where he was—out in Jersey
at this Polk place?"

*Because for some reason he did not want the
police to know that he was out in Jersey at this
Polk place."

“But why?"

Koenig merely shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s pretty obvious," Spike went on, “that he has
said something to the Polks about keeping his visit
quiet. The woman slipped badly and let herself into
a neat trap, which I took advantage of. Fortunately
for my purposes she was a dumb, simple soul and
didn't see through me."

For a while the two men sat smoking in silence.
They were on a tiny balcony which gave a view of
the vast, teeming stretches of the city. Dusk was
dU down, blotting out the ugliness. Street
lights from the distance looked like spangling jewels.
Koenig broke the silence.

“For your purposes, you say. Just what are your
purposes?"

Spike hesitated a moment before he spoke. “Why
—] suppose they're the same as yours. After all, a
lady in distress, flung on my doorstep, all that sort
of thing."

“Yes—for Linda. But I do not fear so much for
her now."

“You mean on account of the Ealing murder?"

Koenig nodded. "It is very certain that the same
person did both of them."

* Are you so sure?" Spike challenged.

“I can only draw the obvious conclusion. The
manner of the killing, the weapon, the stamp found
clutched in the hand. Identical in both cases, for
of course the police would have found a stamp in
Crossley's hand if Linda had not removed it."

Spike considered this gravely. “So that if Linda
Crossley didn't commit the second murder the ob-
vious inference is that she was not present at the
scene of the first."

Again there was a long silence as the two men
smoked. This time it was Spike who broke it. “An-
other thing I can’t understand," he confessed, “is
this Ealing girl. Does she know Linda Crossley?"

“Does that not seem fairly obvious?" Koenig
pointed out. “You yourself say that the telephone
operator told you Linda telephoned Maysie Ealing
the afternoon after Crossley was murdered. After
all, it is quite likely that she may have known her.
Miss Ealing is Fairleigh’s secretary and Fairleigh
was her grandfather’s lawyer.”

“But why that dead faint?”

Koenig smiled indulgently. “Probably because she
had been reading the newspapers and had jumped
to the same conclusion that everyone else had—that
Linda was—ah—involved.” The kindly little man
obviously shrank from using the harsh terminology
of homicide. v iuecicentelly what was your idea in
asking her if Linda had been there?"

“I don't know exactly. Just a hunch, I suppose.
Just to see what she'd do."

*And she did it. Oh well, if you really want to
know what if any is the relationship between Linda
and this Maysie Ealing it will be simple enough to
ask Linda herself. If I can trespass on your hos-
pitality for a day, I think I'll go out tomorrow to
see her."

*By all means. I won't be there, but just make
yourself at home and Pug and Mrs. Parsons will—"

_The telephone bell interrupted his sentence. He
picked up the receiver on the table at his elbow,
spoke for a few minutes with the person at the other
end. As he replaced the instrument he turned to
Koenig.

“That’s Pug himself," he explained and there was
a troubled note to his voice. “He was phoning from
Penn Station to see if I was in. He's on his way up
here now."

“Is—is there any trouble? Linda—"
sudden alarm in Koenig's eyes.

*He didn't say, but he sounded funny."

An uneasy silence settled on the two men while
they waited. Spike rose and paced the balcony.
Koenig's foot tapped nervously on the stone coping.
In spite of his dinner jacket he was still wearing the
incongruous home cobbled shoes and they made a
particularly irritating tattoo. Finally Spike could
stand it no longer.

*Come on, Koenig, let's go into the house and get
a drink."

Twenty minutes later when Pug arrived they were

There was

somewhat fortified against the impending news.

Pug's entrance was slightly dramatic in the man-
ner of one who arrives breathless after a twenty-
mile dash on horseback, rather than as one who had
ridden but three in an upholstered taxicab.

“Jeez,” he accused his lord and master in a most
un-British manner, “where the hell have you been
the last two days?"

*Oh, in and out, but here in New York all the
time."

*Well, I been callin you twice a day ever since
yesterday morning, and I never could get you, so
tonight I just made up my mind and come in."

*What's the matter?"

“It’s that dame."

Koenig clutched Pug's arm.

“She beat it. Took the new boat.
morning—early.”

CHAPTER XIX
O` Thursday evening for the second time with-

Tuesday

in twenty-four hours Koenig dined with
Spike in the town apartment. He had come
immediately at Spike’s telephone invitation.

“Did you find her—do you know—is she—?” The
anxious questions rushed out as soon as he crossed
the threshold.

Spike shook his head. “No, I didn’t find her.”

“Oh—” Koenig sank into a chair. His disappoint-
ment was tragic. His face usually so round and
rosy was strained and drawn with anxiety and it
was obvious that he had not slept the night before.
Spike brought him a stiff drink and presently he
pulled himself together. But at dinner he ate little
and talked less. In the keenness of his disappoint-
ment at no news of Linda he sought refuge in si-
lence. After dinner they smoked their cigars and
Spike reverted once more to the subject that lay so
heavily upon them both.

“You know, Koenig,” he began, “I have an idea.”

Koenig nodded, but indifferently.

“I may have forgotten to tell you, but the other
day when I was up at Maysie Ealing’s I saw a
photograph that interested me. It interested me a
lot. Probably because at first it piqued and puzzled
me. Then I remembered when I had seen that face
before.”

Spike paused and drew his wallet from an inside
pocket. He opened it and extracted a newspaper
clipping and handed it over to Koenig. It was a
half-tone reproduction of a photograph—a young
man, and the eyes that looked out of the picture
were the same as those that had looked out of that
silver frame in the Ealing apartment. There was
a caption beneath. “Will anyone knowing where-
abouts of fourteen-year-old boy resembling this

hotograph communicate with Box 71, Saugus

ndex.”

Koenig looked at the picture, read the caption
and handed it back.

“That photograph,” Spike went on, “appeared in
the West Saugus Weekly Index of the issue that
came out the day before Prentice Crossley was
killed.”

“But what does it mean? Who is Box 71?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I'm going
out to Saugus tomorrow and find out who inserted

ee}

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

that photograph in the paper because I have an idea
that the information may be interesting. Somehow
or other I have a feeling that it will mean some-
thing. That picture appears in the paper with that
very strange caption. Prentice Crossley is murdered
the day after. Soon after that Mrs. Deborah Ealing
is murdered and in the same manner.

“And on the wall of the Ealing apartment is a
picture of this same fellow. It’s David Ealing, her
son, ‘missing in action.’ I know that because there
was a bit of engraving underneath the frame—his
name and division, 116th Infantry, and ‘missing in
action’ October 1918, Samogneux. I got a hunch,”

“But I don’t quite see how it hitches up,” Koenig
protested.

“Neither do I,” Spike agreed, “unless. . . .” He
left the sentence hanging in air as he gathered him-
self together from the low chair in which he had
been sprawling and began pacing nervously up and
down the room, his face very thoughtful, indeed.

“‘Missing in ac-
tion,’” he repeated
half to himself as if
he had no audience
and was only think-
ing aloud. Koenig
lt a cigar and
puffed at it in a
desultory manner.
The telephone rang.
Spike picked it up,
said, “Hello!” in a

reoccupied fashion
in the general direc-
tion of the instru-
ment.

And then quickly
his hand on the in-
strument clutched tighter in sudden tension.

“Who? .. . Yes, yes. . . . What? . . . When?
. . ." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and
turned to Koenig. "It's Maysie Ealing. She says

. ." He jerked back to attention to the voice that
was coming over the wire. He listened. “Yes, but
that won't be necessary. He's right here now... .
Yes, here with me. . . . Yes, right away."

Spike banged the receiver into the cradle and
turned to Koenig. “Get your hat," he told him and
his voice was edged with excitement. “Go up to
Maysie Ealing's right away. It’s 143 West 110th
St. She says Linda Crossley just turned up there
at her apartment. Linda wants you to come up
there, right away."

CHAPTER XX

T nine o'clock the next morning, Spike was
waiting in front of the office of the Saugus
Weekly Index when Clem Yoder arrived. Mr
Yoder combined in his person the offices of

editor, reportorial staff, typesetter, proof-reader
and business manager. He was a grizzled little
fellow whose acquaintance with local and private
history was boundless, and it took Spike all of half
an hour, thanks to these garrulous proclivities, to
find out what ordinarily would have required ten
minutes.

“Well, now, lemme see," Mr. Yoder peered at the
clipping which Spike tendered. “Yes, sir, that’s
from the Index all right. I recollect the picture,
sure enough. Always did have a great memory for
faces. Well, that was brought in here, oh two, three
weeks ago, maybe three, four.”

“By whom, do you know?” p

“Certainly. I got to keep track of that so’s if
any letters come addressed to Box 71, I can always
send ’em on.”

“Have any come for that box number?”

“No, as a matter of fact, they ain't.
never can tell." A s

“This person who brought it in. Who was it?
What name did they give?”

«Well now, of course, Mr. Tracy, I couldn’t tell
you that. That’s confidential like. To tell the
truth I don’t recollect it myself. I ain’t so good
on names as I am on faces. Of course I’ve got it
wrote down here. . . .” H

Mr. Yoder delved into the old-fashioned roll-top
desk from which he conducted his business affairs
and from one of its pigeon holes, he drew forth a
packet of dusty index cards with a rubber band
around them. i A

“Lemme see, now. Box sixty-nine, seventy,
seventy-one. Here it is.” He drew the card out and
held it up to the light the better to decipher his own
scraggled writing. He adjusted his glasses, peered
closer. F

And then suddenly something happened to his
face. The lower jaw dropped and the eyes popped.
He looked up gaping into Spike’s face.

“Lordamighty!” he said. "

Spike attempted to take advantage of him

But you

while he was still overcome with amazement.

“And the name was—”

Mr. Yoder looked up. His jaw was back in place
but his eyes were still a bit poppy. “I couldn't tell
you, really Mr. Tracy, but I think I'd better be tellin"
the police."

“Of course," Spike agreed amiably, “but that's
why I'm here. My brother, you know," and he
nodded in the general easterly direction of the dis-
trict attorney's country home, a mile or so from
town. “I’m helping the police on this case," he
said blandly. “My brother sent me out to get this
information."

Mr. Yoder hesitated, eyed Spike suspiciously, but
there was something in the easy assurance, the can-
did gaze that made it impossible to doubt that his
words were as honest as statements sworn before
a notary.

“Well,” said Mr. Yoder capitulating at last, “it’s a
name that’s been in the paper a lot. It sure did
give me a turn when I picked out this card. I
recollect now her bringin’ it in,” and he read aloud
the name and address on the card.

N the way back to the city Spike stopped off at

a pay station on the outskirts of Queens and

put in a call to Koenig’s combination shop
and apartment, but there was no answer. His brow
was clouded as he made his way out to the curb
and got into his car. It was at Third Avenue and
Sixty-fourth Street while he waited for a green
light that the headlines from a sidewalk newsstand
caught his eye. He took one long distance glance at
their glaring blackness and motioned the newsdealer
to the curb. He shoved a dime into his hand and
grabbed a paper.

THIRD VICTIM IN STAMP MURDER
Kurt Koenig in critical condition in Cutter
Hospital after attack by unknown assailant

CHAPTER XXI

HE people at the hospital were irritating.
“Mr. Koenig?” The girl at the information
desk which barred Spike’s way to the inner
regions of the institution did not sound en-
couraging as she consulted a card index file.

“Oh, you mean 247,” she said as she pulled a
card half way out of the file. She plugged in on
the switchboard at her elbow.

“Gentleman to see 247."

She listened for a few minutes, then pulled out
pn plug and turned back to Spike. “No visitors for

4T.

*[ know, but—"

“No visitors!"

*May I see the doctor?"

*He's with the patient now. If you'd like to
wait..." She indicated a small anteroom at the left.

Spike paced nervously up and down the anteroom.
He looked anxiously at his watch. He flung himself
into a chair and drew from his pocket the paper that
he had snatched from the newsdealer at Sixty-fourth
Street. He had had time to read only the headlines.
Now he unfolded it, spread it out before him.

“Kurt Koenig, stamp dealer who negotiated stamp
purchases and sales for Prentice Crossley, murdered
June 4, was seriously wounded by an unknown as-
sailant as he was walking through Central Park
late last night. He is in Cutter Hospital with a
bullet wound through his left shoulder.

*He was discovered unconscious from loss of blood
in the path that leads through the park from 106th
Street on the east to Lenox and St. Nicholas avenues
on the north, by Patrolman J. F. Duffy. The as-
sault oceurred just south of the lake where the path
is closely hedged by dense shrubbery. It is believed
that the assailant was hiding in these bushes as the
bullet was fired at close range.

*After Koenig was taken to the hospital it was
found that his watch, an old-fashioned closed face
model, contained one of the valuable stamps reported
missing two weeks ago from the collection of the
late Prentice Crossley. It is the 13-cent Hawaiian
issue of 1851-52, more popularly known as a ‘mis-
sionary' and valued at $17,500. "This is the second
of the missing Crossley stamps that have been re-
covered. The first, a six-real Spanish stamp worth
$12,500, was found in the hand of Mrs. Deborah
Ealing, the second stamp murder victim.

“At Police Headquarters fingerprint experts found
that all traces of fingerprints had been removed
from both case and crystal of the watch. The only
prints found on it were those of Patrolman James
F. Smith who went through Koenig's clothes soon
after he was brought to the hospital.

“At an early hour this morning Koenig . . .”

Spike lowered the paper and stared hard at the
white wall in front of him. His face was expres-
sionless, but there was a strange set to his jaw. He

did not finish the newspaper story. When the
doctor came to the door, he was still staring at the
wall . . . thinking...

, The doctor was almost as irritating as the recep-
tion clerk. “I’m sorry," he said with heartless po-
liteness, “but he can have no visitors.”

“But—” Spike sputtered impotently.

The doctor turned to the reception clerk at the
switchboard. “Get in touch with a Mr. Philip
Tracy and ask him to come to the hospital. He’s in
the telephone book. The patient in 247 wants to see
him. Tell him...”

HEN Spike first entered the room Koenig was

lying with his face toward the opposite wall.

At the sound of the opening door the injured
man turned, and when he saw it was Spike he
smiled weakly.

“Only ten minutes.” The nurse laid down the
time limit as she closed the door behind her and
left the two men alone.

Spike drew up a chair and bent over very
close so that Koenig’s weak whispers might be
audible.

“How did it happen?” he asked.

“I don't know—after I left your place—I—I wrote
a letter and then—then I went through the park. I
started to take a taxi and then I thought—I would
walk. I was all upset. I needed to—to get hold of
myself before I saw Linda—so I took the short cut
through the park. Then I don't know—I just re-
member bushes close to the path—on the left side
and then—" He closed his eyes and gestured
weakly.

*And the next thing you knew you woke up in
the hospital." Spike finished the sentence for him.
“Listen, did anyone know you were going up there?"

*No one—except you."

Spike grinned. “Well, I didn’t do it.
way that’s not quite right.
Linda Crossley knew you were coming.
Maysie over the telephone.”

It was Koenig’s turn to grin now. “You may
be a—a damn fool—but you are still a little—dis-
trustful.”

Spike forebore to argue the matter. “What about
this letter you mentioned? What did you stop to
write a letter for?”

“To Linda.”

“Linda? But you were going to see her, you were
on your way?”

“I know—but I was a little afraid—afraid maybe
that I might not—get there.”

“Afraid of what?’

"Just afraid—a—
premonition — what
you call a hunch.
You see—I was
right.”

“Look here,
where’d you write
this letter?”

“The drugstore—
on the corner near
your place. I bought
a tablet and envel-
ope—stamp—wrote
it sitting down—one
of the soda tables.”

“Was there any-
body else in the
Did you notice?”

And any-
Maysie Ealing and
I told

drug store at the time.

“Lots —lots of people.”

“Did you tell anyone where you were going, what
you were going for?”

Koenig shook his head.

Spike was thoughtful, his brows knit in perplexity.
He glanced at his watch. The minutes were tick-
ing off rapidly. Koenig put out a weak hand and
laid it on Spike’s arm.

“Listen—my friend—go see her now. Tell her to
do as I said—in the letter—now today—tell her to
do it.”

“Do what?”

“She knows—it’s in the letter. Tell her!” There
was evident a fierce urgency even in his marked
weakness.

“Yes, yes, I will" Spike reassured him. Koenig
closed his eyes. He was getting very tired. Spike
leaned over the bed solicitously. His time was up.

“Is there anything I can get for you, do for

you?”

“No—just see—Linda.”

“Yes, Pll do that. But anything from your
place. Any clothes or anything?”

“Bring pajamas—the blue ones with white stripes
—these hospital shirts—my keys are in—pants
pockets.” Even in his weakness Koenig still re-
tained his sartorial vanity.

Outside in the corridor Spike summoned the nurse
and had her show him where Koenig’s clothes were
hung in a locker in the hall.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

CHAPTER XXII

NE forty-three West 110th St., of a dull,
O warm afternoon in June was quiet except for

the occasional noisy pounding of a child up

and down the dark stairway. Mrs. O’Brien of
the first floor front was, as usual, leaning out of the
window, lazily casting her eyes up and down the
street in search of a gossiping neighbor who might
be passing. Mrs. Torrence of the fourth floor rear,
returning from the corner market laden with a large
paper shopping bag bursting with groceries, stopped
to pass the time of day. Soon they were joined by
Mrs. Barton who lived in the basement.

All three stopped talking and stared when the
Cadillac roadster drew up at the curb and the young
man got out. In the vestibule he pressed a bell and
stood and waited. The three women watched him.
It was not often that Number 143 had visitors who
arrived in Cadillacs. Then Mrs. Torrence broke
away from the group and mounted the three low
steps to the vestibule. :

"If it's Miss Ealing you're lookin' for," she said
as she noted the buzzer he was pressing, "she ain't
here."

“Not here?"

surprise. y MES
“No, she’s moved. She moved early this morning.

Mrs. Torrence peered at the letter boxes. “I guess
she forgot to tell the postman her forwarding ad-
dress. There’s some mail for her.” The young
man peered too.

“You don’t know where she’s gone, do you?”

“Just over the next street to a rooming house.
Mrs. Parley’s. I can’t tell you the exact number,
but I can show you where it is if you'd like.”

“OQh—well—no, I don’t think that will be neces-
sary. I'll get in touch with her through her office.”

“You a friend of hers?”

“I know her slightly.” 3

“Too bad about her mother, wasn’t it?”

“Very tragic.” `

«Still in a way, I say it's a good thing. | I don’t
mean the poor old lady goin’ off so terrible like that,
but just the same the daughter really didn’t have no
life of her own, and she ain’t as young as she once
was. Now I guess she can go to England and marry
that young man of hers. It isn’t as if she—”

“I think,” he interrupted, indicating the pay sta-
tion at the back of the hall, «I'll make a telephone
call."

He talked a long time to some fellow he called
Jack. So long in fact that Mrs. Torrence, finding
no further pretext for lingering, went on upstairs.
At the sound of the door closing behind her, the
young man abruptly ceased his conversation with
“Jack” who, as a matter of fact, was nothing but
an empty buzzing at the other end of the wire.

He hung up the telephone and listened. There
were no more voices outside. He went quietly to
the open door of the vestibule and peered through
the crack of the jamb. Mrs. Barton was gone and
Mrs. O’Brien was
no longer at the
window. He pushed
the door to, but did
not latch it.

The vestibule now
was almost in dark-
ness. Only a faint
light came through
the transom above.
From his pocket he
pulled out a knife
with a stout blade,
thrust it under the
letterbox marked

The young man inquired in polite

Ealing. He pried,
lifted, pried some
more. There was a

slight wrenching sound as the little door swung
open.

E snatched out the mail, leafed through it
quickly—a bill from the gas company, an ad-
vertising circular, a letter. He thrust the bill
and the circular back into the box, closed the little
door, pressed it firmly until it was flush with the
frame, so that it didn’t look as if it had been pried
open.
Pt 102nd St, Spike turned his car east off the
Avenue and drew up in front of his own building.
Upstairs in his apartment he took out the letter,
to obtain which he had just committed a penitentiary
offense. It was addressed to Miss Maysie Ealing,
but inside there was a second envelope bearing the
name of Linda Crossley.
“Of course . . . he wouldn't put Linda’s name on
the outside for every postman and mail clerk who
had been reading the papers to see . . wise

guy. « « « :
For a moment he hesitated, looking at the en-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

velope. Conscience . . . honor . . . a gentleman
... oh, to hell with all that tripe! He ripped open
the letter. There was just one page on cheap
tablet paper. The writing was uneven as if the
hand that had driven the pencil had trembled
slightly.

“Linda, my dear: I have time for so little
now. But if anything goes wrong and I—but
never mind that now. I think I have found
the family. Their name is Polk and they live
in a little town called West Albion, N. J. If
anything goes wrong before I see you, go to
the police and tell them where you have been
all the while. They will believe you and know
that you have had nothing to do with all this
horrible business. Go now as soon as you re-
ceive this letter. K. Koenig.”

CHAPTER XXIII

i ILIP," the district attorney said with the
impatience of one who has weighty problems
on his shoulders, "I can't see you now. In-
spector Herschman and I are having a very

important conference. Please wait outside and...”

But dignity and gloom and weighty problems, hav-
ing no part in the young man's make-up, slid easily
off his shoulders leaving no impression.

"Inspector! Richard! How godawful you look,
both of you." He greeted them with cheerful good
humor. “Just like the before-taking photograph in

atent medicine ads. The air in this place is lousy.”

e threw the window wide open and the breeze
merrily scattered papers from the district attorney's
desk. “What you two need is a little riotous living.
What have you both been doing with yourselves?
Why don't you—"

"Philip!" The district attorney's stern voice
broke through the bright chatter.

“Yes, Richard." The young man was suddenly
meek.

“Will you please do as I ask."

“No, Richard." The voice was that of a docile
child. He sat down and lit a cigarette.

The district attorney's mouth tightened and his
face grew slightly apoplectic. One could hardly
summon a patrolman forcibly to eject one's own
brother. There was, after all, the Tracy family dig-
nity to consider. His eyes met Herschman's. The
inspector quickly veiled a smile and joined the dis-
trict attorney in glowering at the insouciant young
man.

But the insouciant young man stil refused to
be impressed. “You know," he said lightly, as he
blew a long, lazy cloud of cigarette smoke into the
air, ^I was thinking that if you haven't already dis-
covered the bird that knocked off Prentice Crossley
and old Mrs. Ealing and winged Koenig, you might
be interested in something I found out about . . ."

Here is a scene which we will pass over quickly.
It is not pleasant to witness the rout of the right-
eous before an advocate of light living and debau-
chery. It is still less gratifying to see dignity con-
founded, and the might and majesty of the law
brought to the point where it eats gratefully out of
the hand of a young man who is himself guilty of
(1) compounding a felony, (2) wilfully withholding
evidence from the police, (3) false impersonation,
and (4) robbing the United States mails. Let us
cravenly turn our face on this seamier side of a
district’ attorney's life and skip forward fifteen
minutes.

But let us not get the impression that in those
fifteen minutes Spike revealed all that he had dis-
covered since that day almost two weeks before
when he had sat in the Crossley library sunk in
sham slumber.

As a matter of fact he was chary with his revela-
tions. He did not, for instance, tell them of Linda
Crossley's sojourn on Sark Island, and Koenig's sub-
sequent visit to the Island. He made no mention of
his interview—under false pretenses—with Maysie
Ealing. And naturally, since he was talking to
“officers of the people pledged to the punishment of
those who transgress the law,” he did not confess
that he had just filched a letter from Maysie
Ealing’s mail box.

“It’s Fairleigh who intrigues me," he said. “You
know after that episode in the Crossley library, you
remember that first day, I had one of those indefin-
able hunches. I reasoned that if Fairleigh did have
anything on his mind, the first thing he'd do after
getting back to town was to get it off. That morn-
ing he'd come directly from the landing field to
his office and then to the Crossley place. He didn't
have time to do much but what you demanded of
him—get the Crossley will from his own safe and
meet you at the house. But afterward— Well, I
followed him."

Briefly he related the story of his first trip to the
little town near the forestry reserve in New Jersey.

“Then when I read about this second murder in
the paper, I had another hunch. I went out there
again and talked to the woman." He sketched in
his conversation with Mrs. Polk.

*Since Fairleigh was in New Jersey all afternoon,
what is his motive in withholding that information?"
his brother wanted to know.

“Because, obviously, he didn’t want anyone to
know that he was in New Jersey all afternoon,"
Spike explained.

“But that’s a perfect alibi,” Herschman protested.

"Exactly! And he had a perfect alibi for the
other murder, Crossley. That's why I don't quite
trust him. I'd be inclined to talk things over with
him. Incidentally where was he the night Koenig
was shot?"

*At the theater with his wife. And they went
straight home afterward."

Herschman picked up the telephone. “Get hold
of Fairleigh," he said, when a connection had been
put through to his own office, *and tell him to come
over here. We want to talk to him."

ASSAU STREET is not far from police head-
quarters. Within fifteen minutes the district
attorney's secretary announced Fairleigh.

“If you don’t mind, let me handle him," Spike sug-
gested as they
waited for him to
come into the office.

It was almost two
weeks since Spike
had seen Fairleigh.
There was a change,
but not a great one.
His hard, gray-blue
eyes were shadowed
as with sleepless
nights, and the lines
around his mouth
had deepened. But
he still had that air
of implacability, as
if heaven itself
3 would not budge
him from his own preconceived course.

When he had exchanged greetings with the in-
spector and the district attorney he seated himself
and looked inquiringly at Spike.

"My brother," the district attorney explained
somewhat apologetically. “He has been—ah—as-
sisting with the case. You erhaps remember that
you met him at the Crossley house the first morning
you came back from the Coast."

_ Fairleigh accepted the explanation but said noth-
ing. Spike lit a cigarette and slouched down in his
chair with a deceiving sense of ease.

“Speaking of that first morning,” he said, “things
were rather disorganized and hurried then. There
were some loose ends we didn’t quite clear up. Per-
haps you can help us now, Fairleigh.”

Fairleigh nodded in acquiescence.

“We don’t feel that you have been entirely—ah—
candid with us.”

“In what way, may I ask?”
flat note to Fairleigh’s voice.

“I refer particularly to certain clauses in Mr.
Crossley’s will.” Spike paused. There was an al-
most imperceptible tightening of the lines about
Fairleigh’s mouth.

“There was one phrase referring to you and the
$50,000 bequest which you were to receive that went
something like this—‘in recognition of his steadfast
refusal to betray the trust which I have had in
him.’ Would you mind, just once again explaining
the meaning of that?”

“I thought,” Fairleigh replied, “that I had made
that plain. For fifteen years have managed
Mr. Crossley’s affairs, managed them capably, I
think you will find, if you care to look into the
matter.”

“And I suppose you received a certain fee for
doing this?”

“Certainly.”

“So that the $50,000 bequest is what you might
call a work of supererogation?”

“Possibly.”

“And then again, possibly one might look at it
as a special—ah—inducement in return for which
you yourself rendered a work of—ah—supereroga-
tion?”

“T don’t understand you.”

“Then I shall put it very bluntly.” Spike leaned
forward and eyed Fairleigh. "Isn't it true, Fair-
leigh, that that $50,000 was left to you by Prentice
Crossley because you had rendered him some great
service entirely outside your regular duties as man-
ager of his business affairs?"

"Certainly not!" The answer came quickly, em-
phatically. Was it too quick? Too emphatic?

“You’re quite sure of that?"

“Quite!”

There was a hard,

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

Spike paused and considered the situation. Then
he started in on a new tack.

“But there’s another clause in that will that seems
equally—ah—open to interpretation. I refer to that
sentence about Linda Crossley.” :

Again that tightening of the lines around Fair-
leigh's mouth at the mention of Linda Crossley.

“The phrase there," Spike continued, “if I'm not
mistaken is: ‘And on John Fairleigh I lay the bur-
den of the guidance of my granddaughter, Linda
Crossley. I leave to him the onerous task of saving
her, if possible, from the consequences of her own
indiscretions.’ " RA .

Spike paused and waited, but Fairleigh was silent.

“Tell me, Fair-
leigh, has Linda
Crossley a—well,
what they call in
the good old melo-
dramas, a past?”

“I don’t believe
that I understand

ou.”

“For a lawyer you
are singularly ob-
tuse.”

“Perhaps.”

“To, put it; in
words of one syl-
lable, I mean has
Linda Crossley in
the past committed
some crime, has she 4 . 4
involved herself in any way in anything nefarious?”

“I know very little about her, but I should not
imagine so. She is hardly the—criminal type.”

“And yet her grandfather is murdered and she
has disappeared.” Spike uttered the damning juxta-
position quietly. A ;

“I will never believe that there is any relation
between those two facts—never.” Again the answer
was quick and emphatic.

“I don’t believe I said there was.”

“You implied it though.”

*6 ELL, we shan't argue about that now. Let's
get back to facts. I'm asking you for an
explanation of that clause in Prentice

Crossley’s will. Just what did he mean when he

said, ‘the onerous task of saving her from the con-

sequences of her own indiscretions'2" !

Again the hard blue eyes of Fairleigh met the di-
rect gaze of his interrogator even as they had that
first morning in the Crossley library, and with the
same implacable quietness he replied:

“I haven't the slightest idea."

Spike tamped out his cigarette and lit another
one. “And that," he murmured to himself, “is that."
Aloud he addressed Fairleigh directly with a de-
ceiving casualness. ^

“All right, let's forget that. There's just one
other thing I'd like to ask you. Where were you on
the afternoon when Mrs. Deborah Ealing was mur-
dered?" e

“I have already explained that to the district at-
torney and the inspector." .

*Would you mind explaining it once again—to
me."

Fairleigh related the story of a visit to the law
library on the Drive. _ B y

Spike nodded and smiled. “Interesting,” he said,
“if true.” : .

Fairleigh smiled too, but it was a tight, hard
smile. “If, as you say, Mr. Tracy, it isn't true, and
I was not in my friend's library, where was I?
What would you suggest?"

“Oh,” said Spike nonchalantly, “I’m not 'suggest-
ing’ anything. I’m telling you. You were—" He
paused and inhaled deeply from his cigarette. “You
spent the entire afternoon in New Jersey at the
home of Mr. Henry Polk at a little town called West
Albion, which is on the edge of the Forestry Re-
serve." x /

There was a moment of silence. Fairleigh just
sat there, unmoving. His eyes as they met Spike's
were still direct, unflinching. But imperceptibly
almost, something seemed to go out of him, like air
leaking from a balloon. At last his glance fell. It
was a gesture of defeat.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “you’re right.”

“Then why the hell did you tell this cock-and-bull
story about being in New York?"

Another moment of silence. Then Fairleigh spoke.
“I cannot tell you that.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“No, of course not. I’m not feeble-minded.”

“You mean you won’t tell?”

“Yes, if you wish to put it that way.”

Spike was standing now looking down at Fair-
leigh. He gazed at him as if he were calculating
his possibilities. Then suddenly he shot the question
at him.

“Listen Fairleigh, do you know where Linda
Crossley is?”

The last breath of air went out of the balloon.
Fairleigh crumpled. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t,
but I wish to God I did.”

CHAPTER XXIV
2 THINK," said Spike addressing his brother,
"that my presence might prove embarrassing
to the Polks—to Mrs. Polk at least. We've
met before, you know."

So it was that when the Polks were ushered into
the office of J. Montgomery Tracy, they found them-
selves confronted by only the district attorney and
the inspector. There was no sign of a certain long,
lazy young man with a deceptive air of carelessness.
But the close observer would have noted that the
door into an inner office was ever so slightly ajar.

The Polks seated themselves nervously on the
edge of the chairs which the district attorney in-
dicated. Sunday clothes on a week day, the un-
familiar atmosphere of police headquarters, the im-
posing display of uniformed officers, all played a
part in their apprehension. But it was apprehen-
sion compounded of something more than just ex-
ternals. It was as if both of them were strung tight
on wires, tense, taut, treading carefully, fearfully.
And the woman's eyes in spite of inexpert dabs of
powder looked red as if she had been crying.

Nor did the first few questions of the district at-
torney put them at their ease. The man acted as
spokesman for the two of them, the woman merely
nodding in agreement with his flat monosyllables.

Yes, they were Mr. and Mrs. Henry Polk of West
Albion. Yes, they had lived there twenty years on
their little truck farm. No, they had no children of
their own, just their nephew, Edward.

“And do you know anyone by the name of Fair-

leigh?” The district attorney posed the question.
r ne man nodded. “Yes, we know a Mr. Fair-
leigh.”

“Is he—a frequent visitor at your house?”

“He comes once in a while.”

“What do you mean by ‘once in a while’?”

“Oh—every month or so.”

“How long have you known Mr. Fairleigh?”

“About twenty years.”

“And during those twenty years have you seen
him often?"

“Oh—pretty often.”

“What do you mean by ‘pretty often’?”

“Well, every month or so, like I said before.”

“Are these visits which Mr. Fairleigh makes to
your place ‘every month or so’ purely—ah—friendly
visits?”

“Yes—you might say that Mr. Fairleigh’s always
been right friendly.”

“That isn’t what I mean. I mean are these visits
of Fairleigh’s to your house just in the nature of a
friendly call, or do you have some definite business
relationship with him?”

The man paused, his rough, work-gnarled hands
working in his lap. It was as if they were the out-
ward manifestation of an inward turmoil. His
troubled eyes met the district attorney’s. Then his
glance shifted to his wife beside him, groping for
guidance.

“Henry,” she said, and her voice was faint with
fear and anxiety, “you’d best do like we agreed on
the way in.”

He nodded slowly and turned back to his interro-
gator. “It’s like she says. I guess I’d best tell you
—tell you the truth. We had a hard time making
up our mind what to do, but finally we decided lying
never did come to no good. Only if anything hap-
pens about Edward—”

He broke off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
There was something pathetic in his confused, fear-
ful commitment to truth.

The district attorney was touched but puzzled.
“About Edward?” he said.

Polk nodded. “Yes, Edward. You see—that was
why Mr. Fairleigh has been coming to our house.”

*[ don’t understand. Explain what you mean.”

“Well,” the man began slowly as if he had to pull
the words forcibly from some deep unwilling well
within himself, “you see, Mr. District Attorney, Ed-
ward ain’t really ours. He ain’t no kin to us at
all. But we’ve had him ever since he was just a
baby and it’s just like he was our own and if any-
thing was to happen that we’d—”

Again he broke off. His wife beside him was
weeping quietly.

“But what has Mr. Fairleigh to do with you and
your wife and this boy whom you call your nephew?”
The district attorney prodded him on with the story.

“Well, you see Mr. Fairleigh used to live out near
Albion before he got married about twelve, fifteen
years ago, and we used to sell vegetables to his folks.
His mother and father—they’re dead now—were
real nice people and they traded with us for years.

That’s how young Mr. Fairleigh—we always call
him that although he ain't so young now—that's
how he happened to know us.

"I guess he knew we'd never had any young ones
of our own and would do right by one, so I guess
that's why he brought us the baby fourteen years
ago.

“You mean Edward?"

"Yes. Mr. Fairleigh brought him to us when he
was just a baby, only just two weeks old and we've
had him ever since. Mr. Fairleigh's paid for his
keep ever since, although sometimes it seems sort of
sinful us taking it, but Mr. Fairleigh always in-
sisted. Edward's just like our own child, we're that
attached to him."

*But to whom does he really belong?"

“We never did know that.”

“But what did Fairleigh say when he brought him
to you? You don't pick babies out of thin air, you
know?”

“He said that it belonged to a woman he knew and
she died right after the baby was born. Her hus-
band was dead too. He’d got killed in an automobile
accident about six months before. And there wasn’t
any folks to take care of the baby, so he put it out
to board with us.”

“Did he say who the mother was—or the father?”

“No, sir. Just friends of his. We never knew
their name. We asked if Edward could go by our
name, Polk, and he said yes. We gave him the Ed-
werd part, too, after a brother of my wife’s that

ied.

“And in all these years he has never mentioned
the real parents? All these years that he has been
seeing you every month or so?"

“No, sir.”

“But what was the purpose then of his visits?”

“To bring the board money.”

“T see. He didn’t send you a check.”

“No, sir, he always brought the money himself
in cash.”

The district attorney paused and for a few mo-
ments sat drumming on the edge of his desk, his
brows knit in speculation. Then abruptly he turned
back to Polk, and shot a question at him.

“Has Mr. Fairleigh been to see you recently?”

OLK hesitated. It was as if he had expected the
question, but dreaded it nevertheless.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “he has.”
“Just how recently did you see him?”

"Last—last Tues-
day.”

“And how
was he at
house?”

“In the afternoon.”

“But how long in
the afternoon?”

“Nearly all after-
noon.”

“Be specific. Can
you remember at
what time he ar-
rived and at what
time he left.”

“Not exactly. But
he got there around
two o'clock and he
left just a little before supper time around six.”

*So that on the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13,
Mr. John Fairleigh was at your house from about
two to about six. Is that right?"

“Yes,”

“That was the first time that you had seen him
in how long?”

“He was—he was there just the week before, on
Friday, the day he got back from out West.”

“What time did he come and how long did he
stay?”

“I couldn't say exactly what time he got there.
Mid-afternoon about, but he only stayed fifteen,
twenty minutes.” :

*Did he usually stay such a short time or were
his visits of longer duration?"

*He just stayed a short time usually. Just long
enough to leave the money, and maybe chat for a
few minutes with my wife."

“And did he leave money on this Friday after-
noon you're speaking of?"

*No, sir. He'd already been out two, three weeks
earlier before he went to the Coast and left the
money for Edward's June board."

“Then what was the purpose of his visit?"

There was a frankly puzzled look in Polk's eyes
as he answered the question. It was impossible to
doubt him.

“I dunno,” he said.
the door and my wife let him in.
vous like."

“What did he say? What excuse did he make for
coming?"

long
your

"It was queer. He rapped on
He seemed ner-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

“He said he just happened to be driving by and
thought he'd drop in and see if Edward was all
right. We thought it was kind of queer, he'd never
seemed to be very concerned about him before. But
we said yes, Edward was fine." :

“Anything else?” ?

*No, he just stayed about five, ten minutes and
then he left." j s 5

“And you didn’t see or hear from him again until
last Tuesday when he spent the entire afternoon at
your house?" .—

“Yes, that's right." A

“Tell me about this second visit.”

“Well—as I was saying, he got there around two
o'clock and we talked, just him and me for about
half an hour down to the barn. He looked so tired
and so played out that after we got through talk-
ing I took him up to the house and had my wife here
fix him up some cold buttermilk and cake, and after-
wards he said he was that all in, he felt like he
could get a mite of sleep. He said he hadn't been
able to sleep o' nights, and he said out in the country
like it is at West Albion maybe he could get a few
winks, so we put him to bed in the spare room and
he took a real good nap."

*How long?"

*Oh, I should say about three hours. He got out
to our place about two, and we talked a while and
he drank the buttermilk, and then went to sleep
about three and we didn't wake him up till six."

"You're sure that he was—asleep in your spare
bedroom all that time?"

The man looked slightly puzzled. “Why, of
course,” he said. |

“You didn't happen to go into the spare room by
any chance while he was sleeping?"

“No, sir.” p

“So that you really have no way of knowing that
he was sleeping there all that time. You just think

”

“Why yes, I guess that’s it.”

“So that it is possible that he might not have been
in the spare room all that time.”

“Why yes, I guess—”

x O, it ain’t.” This unexpected interruption was
from the woman. “Of course he was there
all the time. I had to go in twice to get some

embroidery thread that I keep in the top bureau

drawer and I saw him both times, sleeping just as

sound as a baby. The second time I went in, I

spread the afghan over him. It turned a little

chilly that afternoon.”

“T see.” The district attorney accepted defeat
and retreated from this line of questioning. For a
moment he looked at the two simple creatures before
him, a quizzical expression in his eyes, his mouth
pursed. Then a second quick direct onslaught.

“What was the purpose of this second visit?”

Polk paused and again there was that hesitant
recoil from an expected but dreaded question. When
he spoke his voice was low and his eyes dropped.

“He—he told me not to say anything about him
being out to our place—or anything about Edward.

“Why? What explanation did he give for this
request?” d .

*He said that there was this murder of this Mr.
Crossley. And it seems that he'd known Crossley
for a long time and the police had been asking him
about it. And he says that if folks knew that he'd
been out to our place they might be asking us about
him—I mean about Mr. Fairleigh. Not Mr.
Crossley.” "

“But how does Edward come in?" p

“He didn’t explain that very clear. He just says
that if the police got to know about him and us
and Edward, it might mean Edward would get taken
away from us, so if we loved the boy and wanted to
keep him, we’d best not tell the police anything, if
they was to come and ask us anything. We was
just to say that we didn’t even know a Mr. Fair-
leigh and that Edward belonged to some dead rela-
tion of ours. We were to keep still.” —.

*But you're not keeping still" the district at-
torney reminded him heartlessly. “What’s the mat-
ter. Don't you really want to keep Edward? Are
you just pretending?" ; :

“No, sir, no! It’d break us all up if anything—
happened to Edward. But I been scared and wor-
ried. We're not the kind of folks that get mixed up
with the police, Mr. District Attorney. We're good,
self-respecting people, and I don't like this business
of lying. At first I didn't know what to do, I was
that worried about what Mr. Fairleigh had asked of
me. I didn't even tell my wife all of it. I just told
her that if anyone asked about Mr. Fairleigh not
to let on like he'd been to our place on Friday—that
was June 9—or last Tuesday either. I never told
her all about it until today after we got orders to
come in here.

“We didn't know what to do. We were scared.
But we just know it ain't right to lie. We're church-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

going folks and we don't believe that in the end you
profit by it. We don't know what this is all about.
Mr. Fairleigh. didn't tell us anything, and you ain't
told us anything. But we do know that in the end
lying don't pay, so we're telling you the truth as
good as we know it, and we're asking you please
not to let anything happen about Edward."

His voice had risen and his troubled, questioning
eyes pleaded. It was impossible to doubt the man.
Stumbling, bewildered, frightened, he was, but it
was obvious that he was surrendering to truth with
a simple trust in its ultimate righteous efficacy.

When at last the Polks were gone, the door to the
inner office opened and Spike walked out. He was
grinning broadly.

CHAPTER XXV

f HERE really should be," said Spike settling
himself comfortably with his chair tipped
back and his feet desecrating the district at-
torney's desk, *a snowstorm."

The inspectors mouth sagged slightly as he
glanced out of the window at the pavements blaz-
ing with June heat.

“A raging snowstorm,” Spike amplified, “and a
girl, young and beautiful with her nameless child
clasped to her bosom, cast out into the bitter night
by an outraged father. ‘Never darken my door
again, you as has brought shame on the pure name
o' Stebbins.’ She stumbles through the blizzard.
The babe whimpers. The wind—”

“Philip!” The district attorney interrupted, irri-
tated and sarcastic. “I’m sure it’s all very interest-
ing but I hardly feel that now is the time to indulge
your taste for moving picture scenarios.”

“But can I help it,” Spike protested, “if life takes
on a Way-Down-East pattern? Is it my fault if
fifteen years ago come next Michaelmas, John Fair-
leigh seduced some innocent Nell and then refused
to do right by her?”

Suddenly the puzzled face of the inspector light-
ened. “I see what you mean. You mean that this
Edward is really Fairleigh’s child.”

Spike nodded. “Although,” he added, “the evi-
dence of my eyes is against it. I’ve seen the boy and
he’s a nice appearing lad. Fairleigh, of course, looks
like a sour pickle.”

The district attorney repenting his disapproval of
what had at first seemed irrelevant histrionics, seized
upon this line of speculation.

“It sounds reasonable,” he admitted. ‘“Fairleigh’s
married now and naturally he doesn’t want it known
that he’s keeping a child with country people over
in New Jersey. Of course he instructs them not to
tell that he has been out there. And he never paid
out the board money by check. Note that. He de-
livered the cash in person all these years. Inter-
esting.”

“And don’t,” Spike reminded them, “forget the
most interesting point.”

* What's that?"

“The mother—the ruined, betrayed girl.”

“Yes,” the district attorney agreed, “but I hardly
see any way of finding that out except by direct ques-
tioning of Fairleigh himself. And even at that it
might have no connection with this case. It explains
though why Fairleigh lied about his whereabouts
on the afternoon of June 13. He knew that at all
a he must keep this—ah—youthful indiscretion

idden.

“Just the same," Spike persisted, “I think it's
rather interesting to consider the fact that the boy
is fourteen years old, and that Fairleigh on his own
testimony has been working for Crossley for fifteen

ears.
7 “And what of that?”

“Only this: Fifteen years ago Linda Crossley was
nineteen years old, just—what do they say?—just
blossoming into womanhood. The potentialities of
the situation are intriguing.”

Again it was Herschman who first caught the drift
of his insinuation. “You mean,” he said, “that Linda
Crossley is the mother of this Edward, Fairleigh’s
child?”

Spike leaned back, half closed his eyes and let his
errant fancy for melodrama have its way. “Can’t
you see it all. The girl, young and beautiful and
unsophisticated. Fairleigh, man of the world, cad,

blackguard, poltroon. Seduction. 'Who is the man?'
That's the outraged grandfther. She refuses to tell.
They always refuse to tell. It's one of the conven-
tions. ‘Nobody shall call me a hard man. A home
you'll always have here, though little you've done to
deserve it. But you can't bring that child) She
takes the child to the father. The least he can do
is to support it. He puts it out to board with sim-
ple country folk. She returns to her grandfather.
Life goes on. Fourteen years pass. . . . "

T was at this point that the inspector snatched
the conversation from Spike.
“Sure, don't you see. For years the old man—
I mean Crossley—never knows anything about it—I
mean who the man was. Then one day he gets hep.
He's always thought that Fairleigh was the soul
of honor. Left him $50,000 in his will just on that
account. And then he finds out about this that hap-
pened fifteen years before. So what does he do?"
“Threatens to change his will," Spike puts in like
a bright pupil answering teacher's questions.
"Sure. And then what happens? Fairleigh—”
a chance to

“—murders him before he has
do it."

Again the bright pupil.

“Sure!” Herschman
was now definitely
excited. Spike's next
words were like the
sudden sticking of a
pin into a balloon.

*But remember
this: Fairleigh was
in Los Angeles when
Crossley was mur-
dered."

The balloon col-
lapsed. The inspec-
tor slumped in his
chair. “Sure,” he
said, “I forgot that.”

“And,” the district
attorney added, “he
has an absolutely iron-clad alibi for the afternoon
Mrs. Ealing was killed.”

For a few moments there was the silence of defeat.
The inspector was cast down, the district attorney
was thoughtful. Spike lit a cigarette and yawned.
Presently the district attorney broke the silence with
another question.

“And just how does all this—I mean Fairleigh and
an illegitimate child and Linda Crossley—how does
it all tie up with the Ealing murder?”

_ The inspector shook his head. It was too deep for
him. Spike puffed meditatively at his cigarette.

“Perhaps it does," he said, “if we leave Linda
Crossley out of the picture. She, I take it, is not
the only woman who in the spring of 1919 was
capable of bearing a child."

"Doesn't that leave it open to a rather large
field?" the district atorney asked with a mild attempt
at humor.

"Possibly. And then again it might narrow it
down. Narrow it down to the other woman in the
case—Maysie Ealing. Don't forget that she's Fair-
leigh's private secretary."

“But how—”

Spike waved them to silence. “Perhaps,” he said,
“I forgot to mention the other day, another little trip
I made.”

From his pocket he drew a newspaper clipping and
handed it to the district atorney and the inspector.
It was a picture of a young man and beneath it a
caption: “Will anyone knowing the whereabouts of
a fourteen-year-old boy resembling this photograph
communicate...”

“Who does it look like?” Spike asked.

The two men studied the picture closely. The dis-
trict attorney's brows knit in a frown of concen-
tration.

“Someone I’ve seen, but I can’t quite...”

It was the inspector, trained for many years in
the police line-up, who made the identification.

“Tt looks a bit like that Ealing girl. Like it almost
might be her brother.”

"Tt is,” Spike said.

Briefly he told of the picture’s appearance in the
Saugus Index and his own visit to the Index office.

“My suspicions,” he explained, “were aroused by
a photograph which I saw in the newspapers of
Maysie Ealing herself." Thus blandly did he elim-
inate the necessity for revealing a certain visit—
under false pretenses—to 143 West 110th Street, the
day after Mrs. Ealing was murdered.

“The picture was inserted, according to the rec-
ords of the editor, by"—he paused irritatingly—“by
Maysie Ealing."

His audience did not grasp the significance at
once, so he continued:

"It looks very much as if Maysie Ealing in a de-
layed attack of maternal impulse were trying to
locate her long lost child. Note that it says ‘a four-

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

teen-year-old boy resembling this photograph.’ Per-
haps even when the child was only a tiny baby it
was obvious that it didn’t take after its father, that
it looked like its mother and its mother’s brother.
The natural inference would be that this likeness
would increase with the years. Hence...”

He indicated the clipping. .

He rose and reached for his hat. “I think," he
said, *I'll be looking into this."

At the door he paused as if struck by a sudden
disconcerting thought. AC.

“Still and all," he said, “suppose all this is true.
How the hell are those damn stamps mixed up in it?"

CHAPTER XXVI

bs BUTLER," said Spike as he lifted his feet
A to the district attorney's desk, "is the only

thing lacking." He was reporting on his

recent interview with Miss Ealing. “A sin-
ister butler, one who's been chummy for years with
the family skeleton. It’s got everything else—the
missing heiress, the death-dealing dagger, the name-
less child, shots in the night, and the person who
knows something they're not telling." The last was
in verbal italics. meer

Herschman merely grunted and the district attor-
ney looked annoyed. “But to get back to your inter-
view with Miss Ealing,” he prompted, “what did—”

“But she’s the one I mean,” Spike interrupted.
“The one who knows something they’re not telling.
The grammar's cockeyed, but the meaning’s there.

. Maysie Ealing isn't going to tell anybody anything

she isn't forced to. And even then I wouldn't be
altogether too sure of her. I've never before seen
such calm, convincing lying. And when she was
trapped into admitting motherhood, she did it with
equal calmness."

“If you ask me,” the inspector cut in, "they're two
of a kind, her and Fairleigh. He knows a lot he's
not telling."

Spike nodded.
calm consistency." j "

“But even if he is or isn't the father of this child
and Maysie Ealing is the mother, what," Herschman
demanded, “has that got to do with two murders and
an attempted third?" y

“To say nothing,” the district attorney pointed
out, “of the theft of a small fortune in valuable
stamps.”

“And there,” said Spike, “is where you put your
finger squarely on the problem—the stamps.”

“Yeah, what the hell is the idea of stealing them
from Crossley if whoever did it is going to scatter
'em all over the place, afterward?" — A

“They’re sort of a trade-mark,” Spike pointed out.
*When Crossley's body was found there—"

He caught himself up sharply, finished off lamely.
“_there weren't any stamps about, but they had
been taken from the safe. When the next victim,
Mrs. Ealing, was found, there was one of the stolen
stamps in her hand. And the third victim—or at
least he would have been a victim if the murderer
hadn't been a rotten shot—when Koenig was found
there was a stamp inside the face of his watch.
Find the guy who's got those stamps—” He paused
and Inspector Herschman finished the sentence with
emphatic conviction.

“and you find the guy that murdered Crossley
and Mrs. Ealing and tried to do the same by
Koenig."

Spike nodded in sage agreement. r

“In the meantime,” the district attorney put in,
“the circumstances seem to call for another inter-
view with Fairleigh." y

A half hour later the district attorney and his
younger brother in one car, and the inspector accom-
panied by Mellett, a Headquarters detective follow-
ing in a second car, drew up in front of the Nassau
Street building which housed the office of Schwab,
Fairleigh and Morrison. . es:

Spike had been all for summoning Fairleigh to
police headquarters, but the district attorney pointed
out the strategic advantage of a surprise visit at
Fairleigh’s own office. Spike looked slightly worried
as he thought of a certain comely telephone oper-
ator. Maysie Ealing, he knew, had not been at the
office since the death of her mother, was not expected
back at work for another week. But the telephone
operator—

“And he has lied with the same

It would be disillusioning, doubtless, to find that -

one whom you had previously regarded as a person
interested only in the finer things of life, was just
a police department stool pigeon after all.

t was chance alone which saved them both em-
barrassment. The temporary relief operator was on
when the three men entered the reception room of
the law firm. They were shown almost immediately
into the private office of Fairleigh.

The lawyer looked much the same as he had at the
previous meeting two days earlier, worn, deeply
troubled—and stubborn.

“I suppose," he said, and there was a grim smile
on his thin, tight lips, “I should ask to what I am
indebted for this honor."

“Under the circumstances," said the district at-
torney with equal grimness but no smile, *I think we
can dispense with such a formality."

The four men seated themselves, Fairleigh behind
his desk, Herschman, the district attorney and Spike
facing him on the opposite side.

"Certain things have happened since we saw you
last, Mr. Fairleigh,” Spike began, “which have con-
vinced us of the necessity of another interview with
you. I may point out that at that time we were
not entirely convinced of your—ah—"

“Honesty?” Fairleigh suggested.

“Possibly,” Spike admitted, “but perhaps the bet-
ter way to put it would be to say that you did not
impress us as one exhibiting a helpful spirit of
cooperation.”

“Possibly not,” Fairleigh agreed, “but may I sug-

gest that you come to the point, if—” He cut the
sentence off unfinished.
“Tf any, ” Spike supplemented. “Yes, Mr. Fair-

leigh, there is one and quite a definite one. You see,
since last we met we've had a talk with Mr. and
Mrs. Polk.”

In the silence that followed this statement, there
was an almost imperceptible tightening of the lines
around the lawyer’s mouth.

“We had a talk with them,” Spike went on, “and
they told us about—Edward. What we want to
know is, who is he?”

“He is the child of a friend of mine who died soon
after his birth. The father had been killed six
months ear—”

“We heard all that,” Spike interrupted, “from the
Polks. What we want to know now is just who he is.”

“Tve just told you."

“What was the name of his parents?"

AIRLEIGH hesitated for just the fraction of a
second. Then his answer came quickly. “That
is something I am not at liberty to reveal."

“It seems to me, Fairleigh, that there are far too
many things that you are not at liberty to reveal."

"I have always enjoyed the confidence of my
clients. I feel it hardly honorable to betray it now.”

“Honorable . . . a man of honor”... The phrase
flashed again through Spike's mind. Aloud he said:
"Betray. That's a good word. The one they always
use, isn't it?”

*[ don't know what you are talking about."

“I’m talking about betrayal and honor and all that
sort of thing."

“I’m afraid I don't follow you."

“Im talking about this child, Edward, and his
mother, and at the risk of being melodramatic, I'll
use your own words, Fairleigh. You betrayed her,
and then refused to make an honest woman of her."

The lawyer stiffened and at the same time blinked.
It was as if some one had given him a smart rap on
the head. "Are you," he said slowly as if trying to
make sure in his own mind, *trying to intimate that
I am the father of this child out in West Albion?"

Spike nodded.

Fairleigh shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m not."
aen why for fourteen years have you supported

im?”

“That again is something I cannot tell you.”

“Please say what you mean, Fairleigh. Say ‘won’t’
instead of ‘can’t? ”

“As you will.”

“All right. Suppose you’re not the father.
who is?”

“The father is dead.”

“We've been told that several times now. What
we want to know is who was he before he died.”

“That again is something I—”

*—won't tell,” Spike finished off. “All right, then,
since you won’t tell us who the father is, tell us who
the mother is.”

Fairleigh’s only answer was an adamant silence.

Spike laughed softly. “It’s all right. You needn’t
say anything. It just happens that we know the

Then

answer to that one.”

Fairleigh’s eyebrows arched in silent inquiry.

“We know who the mother of the child is.
just been talking to her.”

Suddenly the lawyer put out a wavering hand and
clutched the edge of the desk.

I've

“The mother—talking to her—herself?”

“In person.”

“Then you’ve seen her—you know—”

“Weve seen her—we know—”

“Where is she?” It was a peremptory command.

“Don’t you know?”

“No. Tell me—tell me quickly.”

For the second time Spike felt himself brought up
short, checked abruptly in his rapid-fire questions.
He eyed Fairleigh, puzzled at first, then with a
strangely speculative gleam in his eye.

“Perhaps,” he said, “I have made a mistake. But
less than twenty-four hours ago your secretary,
Maysie Ealing, admitted that she was the mother of
this child.”

It was Fairleigh’s turn to be flabbergasted.

“Miss Ealing, my secretary, told you—that? Told
you that she was the mother of this child, Edward?”

“Not under that name, naturally. She hasn’t
seen him since he was a baby.”

“But—but that’s preposterous.”

“Then she isn’t?”

“No, no! It's ridiculous! I can’t understand...”

“How long have you known Miss Ealing?”

“Six or seven months.”

“How come she’s your secretary?”

“My old one left to get married and I advertised
for a new one and she answered the ad.”

“Ever see her before she answered the ad?”

“Never.”

“Is she a good secretary?”

“Excellent.”

“Have you any complaints to make of her?”

“None whatever.”

“Didn’t it ever strike you as queer that the murder
of her mother should be so obviously linked with the
murder of your client?”

Fairleigh hesitated. “Yes, it did."

“How do you account for it then?”

“T don’t.”

“Do you know of any reason why the person who
murdered Prentice Crossley and stole $85,000 worth
of stamps should also murder Mrs. Ealing?”

“None.”

“Do you know of any reason why Maysie Ealing
should claim to be the mother of a child whom you
are prepared to swear is not hers?”

“T have no idea. I am as completely puzzled on
that point as—”

The end of the sentence was cut off by a commo-
tion, outside . . . a woman's high-pitched voice . . .
a scrambling of feet ...

Fairleigh stopped, listened. Spike, the district at-
torney and the inspector looked toward the door.

"I don’t care who's there. I’m going in.” A
woman's voice came distinctly now through the glass
partition. At the sound of it Fairleigh started vio-
lently. He rose from his chair, made for the door.
Before he could reach it, it burst open. A woman,
throwing off the restraining arms of office workers,
rushed into the room, rushed at Fairleigh.

She saw no one else. It was as if the other three
men were not there at all. She grabbed Fairleigh's
arm and her voice poured forth in a torrent of words.

“Tell me—tell me now where he is—I've waited
fourteen years—I can’t wait any longer—now you've
got to tell me—what have you done with him—my
Davie—my baby—my little Davie—"

It was Linda Crossley—pale, disheveled, with a
look that was half madness, half savagery in her
wild, lovely eyes.

CHAPTER XXVII

« USH, Linda, not now!" Fairleigh's glance
leaped from the district attorney to the in-
spector, to the crowded doorway. But the
woman did not see them. It was as if they

were not there. Her voice rushed on, demanding:

“Where have you kept him—you've got to tell me
now—that was your bargain with him—you know
it was—when he died—"

*Linda!" He broke in, shaking the words from
her. “Quiet! I'll tell you, but not here, not now,
not with all these people... There was alarm in
his yoice; as if he must stop the woman’s talk at all
costs.

“Get them out, then.” She tore herself from his
grasp, turned toward the gaping office workers. “Get
out! Get out! Leave us alone.” Her voice was
strident, shrill.

The crowd at the doorway retreated. She turned
on the district attorney and the inspector. “Get out!
Leave us alone!”

Fairleigh spoke. “I think, Mr. Tracy and Mr.
Inspector, if you would leave me alone with her for
a few moments... ”

“Not a chance,” Herschman’s voice rasped.
ieee in a terribly wrought-up state and I’d
ike. ...

I know what'd you'd like, but you're not going to
get it. I don't trust you, (Please turn to page 45)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Organize pots and pans.
workable gadgets.

with fruit pectin, and jelly-

Insure

making’s a kitchen incidental

By MARY MARTIN

NE of the very first rules in
O the book about jam and jelly-

making has to do with the
assembling of all the materials so
that steps and tempers can be saved.
Any good cook realizes that much of
her success lies in her ability to or-
ganize.

Its easy and pleasant to fill the
jam closet and very much simpler
than ordinary canning because jams
and jellies must be made in small
batches at a time. If you use large
quantities of fruits for the job you
will only find that the cooking period
takes much longer, the fruit loses its
color and quality and becomes dark.
So you see that it is quite possible
to make a few jars at a time, much
more economically, more successfully
and while you are doing other kitchen
mechanics. Never be a martyr to a
jam pot—the jam pot doesn’t like it
either.

For jams, small fruits or soft-
textured ones are best. The garden
or market will yield you plenty of
“seconds”—good fruits, but bruised,
poorly shaped or slightly over-ripe. Of course, they
must be free from decay, but they needn’t be show-
window material. But don’t tackle more than
three or four quarts at a time, and don’t drown the
natural succulence of the fruit in too much sugar.

A wire basket is indispensable when the jelly-
making season is on and one of its first uses is in
the cleaning of the fruit. The most objectionable

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

bacteria is in the earth that may
be clinging to fruits when you get
them, and it must come off. Wash
the unpeeled fruits in the wire
basket, but lift it out afterwards
so that no sediment will adhere.

Be sure, before you start, that
you have as many modern canning
aids as possible—efficient apple
corers, sharp knives, fruit pectin,
fresh paraffin, clean jars. There
are many kinds of peeling ma-
chines on the market, some for
hand, some for machine operation,
but all help to cut down labor.
Peaches can even be skinned via the boiling water
route as tomatoes are, but be sure to plunge them
into cold water immediately after. If there is fruit
to be pitted, do it before the peeling operation—it’s
much easier.

As the fruit is peeled, drop it into a weak salt
solution (1 tablespoon of salt to 1 quart of water)
to keep it from turning brown before it reaches the

Home-made jams and jellies are wholesome, economical, energy foods
that please the entire family. They're the base for a dozen delicious
desserts, but simple bread and jam is still top favorite.

gi DM as

JAM CLOSET

IN- THOSE SPARE
KITCHEN MINUTES

fire. Remember especially that small batches of
jams and jelly spell success, and any other large
scale effort is a lazy man’s economy!

Red Currant Mint Jelly

5 cups (2% Ibs.) juice 7 cups (3 Ibs.) sugar
14 bottle fruit pectin

To prepare juice, crush about 4 pounds fully
ripe red currants, add 1 cup water and 1 cup tightly
packed chopped spearmint leaves. Bring to a boil.
Simmer, covered, 10 minutes. Place fruit in jelly
cloth or bag and squeeze out juice.

Measure sugar and juice into large saucepan
and mix. Bring to a boil over hottest fire and at
once add fruit pectin, stirring constantly. Then
bring to a full rolling bois and boil hard 14 minute.
Remove from fire, skim, pour quickly. Paraffin
when jelly is cool. Makes about 11 glasses (6 fluid
ounces each).

(Please turn to page 73)

g
Photograph courtesy Fifth Avenue Hotel

on that PARTY

‘Punch is festive and simple to serve.

By AMY VANDERBILT

; how, and the household that owns one in

4 which are nested a hundred or more punch
glasses has the party spirit all ready to take down
from a top shelf! ]

Of course it's what goes into the punch bowl that
is important to the party. Nobody really cares
whether the bowl is of cut glass, rock crystal or
some nondescript something picked up írom a
tennis club auction, so long as it holds plenty for
a thirsty crowd.

A ready bowl and a few simple ingredients plus
a large supply. of ice has been known to keep a
party of difficult high schoolers perfectly hilarious
for hours. Punch, possibly with less innocent com-
ponents, is a country club standby, too, and for a
summer party where guests seem to appear out of
thin air it is the simplest form of liquid refreshment
to serve and always a jolly one especially at any
sort of dance.

With a punch very little else is needed for the
party's success, from the standpoint of refreshment.
A large plate of thin assorted sandwiches on the
table with the bowl and glasses sometimes turns the
trick"neatly. And as punch drinking is a stand-up
diversion the sandwich is just taken in the fingers
quite innocent of plate or napkin. At more
elaborate parties no sandwich plate appears with
the punch bowl but a simple midnight supper can
follow after the punch, and the party, is exhausted.

You can't dance the whole evening through on a
hot night no matter how refreshing the punch bowl.

A PUNCH bowl always suggests a party, some-

Try it on the summer crowd

It's fun, especially in the country, to vary the party
by a treasure hunt or a game of charades. One of
the most enjoyable out-door shindigs I ever went to
was on the terrace of a country club and between
dances the guests went treasure seeking over the
grounds . . . for four magnums of champagne
cleverly concealed under hedges, on the top of the
flagpole, in a tree and as a tremendous climax—
in the swimming pool. The "clues" were all given
in verse and read off to us by a master children's
story teller . . . in a very grown-up way. By the
time the fourth and last “clue” came the crowd
was so hilarious from jumping hedges and tumbling
over rose bushes that everyone was delighted to don
bathing suits at midnight and grope around the
pool bottom for the last prize.

Now everyone can't give away champagne at a
treasure hunt but lots of other prizes are well worth
chasing over acres of country-club or a few blocks
of suburban lawn. Why not a baby party with
dolls and toys hidden hither and yon, or a mystery
party with detective novels as the treasure to be
sought. And in between the mad galloping over
the turf and through the halls, the punch bowl—the
friend of the thirsty—can always be waiting.

The following recipes are a little out of the
ordinary, we think, and should make a summer
dance, formal or informal, somewhat more of an
occasion. Our recipes are all non-alcoholic but of
course if you wish you can try your own experimen-
tation in livening them up. But they are excellent
just as we give them and somehow, soft drinks are
much more acceptable to most people in hot
weather.

Sea Foam Punch
To 1 cup of water and 1 cup of sugar, add six
whole cloves, a small stick of cinnamon, a piece of
preserved ginger. Boil to make a syrup. Cool.
Add to syrup 1 cup each of orange and lemon
juice. Color with mint extract. Serve on chopped
ice, and put a sprig of mint leaves in each glass.

Currant Punch

1 cup currant juice or glass
of currant jelly

14 cup sugar, or little more,
if desired

Make syrup by boiling sugar in water for about

1 cup orange juice
14 cup lemon juice
214 cups water

5 minutes. Add juices and ice.
Spicy Punch
1 cup sugar 3 or 4 inches of stick cinnamon

1 cup water 12 whole cloves

Tie cloves in piece of cheesecloth. Boil sugar.
water, and spices to make a syrup. Take out
spices and cool. To the syrup add:

1 cup grapefruit juice
1 cup pineapple juice

Juice of 6 oranges and 6 lemons
Water, added to taste

Fruit Punch

cups sugar

2 cups water
1 doz. lemons
1

6 doz. oranges

1 pint grape or raspberry juice
1 pint fresh mixed fruits

1 quart tea

1 quart ginger ale

Boil sugar and water for
10 to 15 minutes to make
thick syrup. Cool. Wash
oranges and lemons.
Squeeze out juice. Let skins stand in water for an
hour and add water to fruit juice. Add mixed fruits
and tea. Just before serving, add ginger ale and
cracked ice. This will serve about 25.

Mint Punch
Juice of 2 oranges

1 pint cold tea 1 cup granulated sugar
3 or 4 whole cloves Crushed mint leaves

Mix and chill thoroughly. When ready to
serve, strain and add one pint of grape juice (white
preferred) one orange cut small, two slices of pine-
apple cut fine, and one quart of ginger ale. Serve
with cracked ice.
Ginger Punch

% cup ginger syrup
1 cup sugar 1 cup orange juice
34 cup chopped Canton ginger —!4 cup lemon juice
1 quart charged water

Juice of 2 lemons

1 quart water

Boil water, sugar, ginger and ginger syrup for
twenty minutes. Cool. Add fruit juices and
charged water gradually.

Orange Ice Punch

1 pint orange ice 2 tbsp. bottled lime juice or
1 lemon 2 tbsp. lemon juice
3 l-pint bottles pale dry ginger ale (12- to 16-oz. size)

Place the orange ice in a bowl or pitcher. Add the
lime juice or lemon juice and the lemon cut in thin
slices. Just before serving add the ginger ale, and
stir until the orange ice is nearly melted. Then
serve. The orange ice may be purchased or made
in an automatic refrigerator. Serves 6 to 8.

Apricot Punch

1 quart carbonated lime

beverage
Fresh mint and ice
Put the apricots with their juice through a strainer,

then add the orange and lemon juices. Pour over
ice cubes or ice, and add the carbonated lime bev-
erage just before serving. Garnish with fresh mint.

Cider Punch

1 cup powdered sugar
1 pint bottle sparkling white
grape juice
Combine all the chilled ingredients and serve at
once. Serves 5. Ice cubes may be added.

L4 can apricots
1 cup orange juice
15 cup lemon juice

1 cup orange juice
2 cups cider
14 cup lemon juice

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Sleuthing for Beauty

Courtesy of Krepe-Tex Rubber Swim Suits

A trip to the beach gives Pamela and Shirley
mew angles on Suntan and Beach Beauty

By PAMELA PINKERTON

s I, Pam,” called Shirley on the
telephone. “Pack a bag and
take the ten o’clock train out

to the beach. The boys will meet you

at the station and it promises to be

a perfect week-end.”

“Love to,” I replied. “But even a
beauty sleuth needs to know a little
about the program. What about
clothes?”

“Oh, a bathing suit, a sports dress,
and an evening dress, will carry you
through. See you soon.” And she
hung up.

Standing on the steps of the beach
club later, I surveyed the scene with
a beauty-conscious eye. This week-end
I was going to have a good time and
get some new angles on suntan, or
know the reason why.

“Here I am, Pamela,” cried my as-
sistant, a long-limbed bronzed figure

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

in a brief red bathing suit. She
crawled from beneath a huge beach
umbrella. “Come on, I want you to
meet some of the most attractive girls
on the beach.

If I had any doubts whatever about
the vogue of suntan, they were soon
dispelled. There wasn't a single soul
on the beach who hadn't been toasted,
or roasted by the sun's rays. And
there was every shade of suntan
from a mild cafe au lait to a deep
mahogany.

“Tell me, Shirley,” I demanded,
*How in the world has everyone man-
aged a coat of brown in such a short
time. There's been only a week or two
of decent weather."

*No special trick," answered Shir-
ley, sprawling in the hot sand beside
me. “But we have done something
this year, which I think you'll agree

is pretty smart. The first few days of
swimming, everyone just saturated
herself with oil, or cream, or a
special lotion, and took sunbaths of
half-hour intervals to insure a good
tan. As one who was laid up for three
days with painful sunburn and blis-
ters last year, I took care to acquire
my tan more cautiously this Summer.
Now, there is no further cause for
worry. I've got a good start with
no danger of a bad burn.

“Of course, there are a few whose
skins simply wouldn't tan. Sue, for
example. She burns, blisters, peels
and freckles and her skin just won’t
tan. But Sue uses a good sunproof
cream that deflects the sun’s power-
ful rays and helps prevent sunburn
and always wears a brimmed hat and
long-sleeved lisle sweaters when in
the sunshine. So she plays tennis,
golf, rides horseback, and swims with
the crowd just the same.

“Sue’s a smart girl. But Shirley,
what impresses me is that women are
doing something about their feet at
last. Far too long we’ve been con-
fronted by the sight of girls and wo-
men in bathing suits whose hands
were carefully manicured but whose
feet were adorned with nothing more
than an objectionable callous or two.
And besides...”

“Shirley Watson!” I exclaimed
sternly. “Look at your feet.”

“I know, I know," she retorted in
mock terror. “But really, Pamela, I
just haven't had time to get a pedi-
cure."

“Nonsense, you can do it yourself.
At the beginning of the Summer be-
fore you strip your feet of shoes and
stockings, you should start working
on them. Use the same manicure
preparations you use for your finger-
nails. Plenty of soap and water and
a stiff brush, a cuticle softener, a
bleaching pencil, and liquid nail pol-
ish. It's a safe rule to use the same
polish on your toenails as you use on
your fingernails. And do get after
those opera-pump callouses on your
heels. After your nightly bath,
scrub them with a coarse towel, and
work in a generous amount of
cleansing cream. If your feet were
in very bad shape, I'd suggest a visit
to a chiropodist. But they're not, and
with a little attention, they can be
made quite presentable.

“So endeth the first lesson," I said.
"Let's dress and wander over to the
tennis court. I'd like to watch the
singles.

Shirley watched as I poured some
cool-looking green lotion on facial
tissues, then her curiosity got the
better of her. “What’s that for?”

“Very elementary, my dear Dr.
Watson, it’s simply a mild astringent
with which I purpose to remove the
sun oil before showering. I've no
desire to ruin my new sports dress
with oil stains, and this whisks away
the excess oil very pleasantly.

“That solves ‘The Mysterious Case
of My Oil-Stained Dress?” said
Shirley as she reached for the bottle.

Maap Lor

NO OFFENSE MEANT: Perspira-
tion is an ugly word. It’s uglier when
it makes its appearance on your summer
gowns, and unspeakable when malodo-
rous. The.truly fastidious young woman
keeps three types of deodorant handy
. . . powder, liquid, and cream. Illus-
trated below are three on which the
immaculate modern can pin her faith.
There’s a grand new powder deodorant
in the cylindrical black-and-gold con-
tainer. You dust it on while your body
is still wet from a bath. It's unscented

but I detected a fresh, clean new-mown
hay odor that clings for hours after you
use it. There's also a liquid non-
perspirant in a crystal clear bottle, as
well as the fragrant cream deodorant.
I could write reams about all three, but
when I say they fill the bill for summer
daintiness, it sums it up completely.

GET A GOOD FOUNDATION: And
this is sound advice whether you are
buying a girdle
or deciding upon
the first course
at dinner. But
what I am so
steamed up about
is a foundation
cream that's un-
like any these
sharp eyes have
ever seen before.
Its smooth and
creamy, it blends
perfectly, it gives the skin a velvety
finish, and it comes in a russet shade
(a rosy-beige) that covers up the first
faint sprinkling of summer freckles in
a way that is astonishing. And if that
isn't enough, it holds face powder for
hours and hours.

WHAT'S NEW? Just heaps of sun-
tan and sunburn preparations . . . a
creamy body rub that does wonders for
scaly, sandpapery surfaces especially
nubbly elbows and heels . . . a brushless
mascara in a flip-stick container . . . a
curler gadget which clasps fly-away
strands and rolls them into neat little
curls . . . a pearl type polish in a topaz
jewel shade,

very zwicki . . . o
Until next Nn
month...

If you would like further in-
formation about the articles de-
scribed, and other beauty news,

write enclosing stamped. envelope
to the Beauty Editor, Make-Up
Box, Tower Magazines, 55 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N. Y.

4. N
P.

$7,500 PRIZE FOR A MYSTERY NOVEL

WORLD-WIDE SEARCH

FOR A NEW MYSTERY CHARACTER

and a writer who will create a new swashbuckling, romantic crook character.
Similar characters that have become famous in the world's outstanding
mystery fiction have been the immortal Robin Hood, Raffles, The Lone Wolf,
Arsene Lupin, Black Shirt. Who is the next character to achieve fame among
the audacious, daring rogues of history's all-time, all-star mystery fiction?

type of modern rogue character to be cre-
ated in mystery stories, as exemplified by those
lovable crooks, Raffles, The Lone Wolf, Arsene Lup-
in, etc., J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, Pa.,
Mystery MacaziNE (of the Tower Magazines, Inc.)
New York City, George G. Harrap and Company,
Ltd., of London, England, and the London Daily Mail,
have joined forces in a world-wide search for a crook
character, and, together offer the prize of $7,500 to
the author, new or old, who creates a character which
the editors of the four sponsoring publishing houses
will unanimously agree is worthy of taking a place
among the great, lovable crook characters of all time.
No one is barred. Writers all over the world are
invited to compete in this great international search
for a new mystery character. The novel will be serial-
ized simultaneously in Mystery Macazine and the
London Daily Mail. J. B. Lippincott Company and
George G. Harrap and Company, Ltd., will publish it in
book form in the United States, England and Europe.
The contest is open! The race is on! Whose name
will be added to the roster of the great mystery
writers of all time, in the first attempt of its kind to
discover a new mystery character?

Brees that the time has come for a new

JUDGES

Carolyn Wells, the editors of the J. B. Lippincott
Company and the Mystery Macazine, of the Amer-
ican entries; Cecil Hunt, Fiction Editor of the Lon-
don Daily Mail, and the editors of George G. Harrap
and Company, Ltd., London, of the British and all
foreign entries. The entire board of judges will pass
upon the best entries selected from American, British
and all foreign contributors.

CONDITIONS AND TERMS
For the $7,500 Mystery Novel Competition

1. The author of the manuscript which the judges
consider most suitable for book publication and mag-
azine serialization, shall receive within one month of
the award of the prize, the sum of $7,500 as follows:
$2,500 each from the Mystery MacaziNE, New York
City, and the London Daily Mail, for the first Ameri-
can and British serial rights, respectively; $2,500 as
advance on account of royalties to be earned on the
world’s book rights—$1,250 on account of the Ameri-
can book rights by the J. B. Lippincott Company,
Philadelphia, and $1,250 on account of the British
book rights by George G. Harrap and Company, Ltd.,
London. The author will receive a royalty from the
George G. Harrap and Company, Ltd., and the J. B.
Lippincott Company, of i0 per cent on the published

UA a.

price up to five thousand copies, and 15 per cent
thereafter. Other details as to cheap editions, etc.,
to be in accordance with the usual conditions set forth
in the publishers’ agreements.

2. The publishers shall control all other rights in
the prize-winning book, including motion and talking
pictures, dramatic and second serial, and shall pay the
author 50 per cent of all sums received therefrom.

3. The author of the prize-winning novel shall agree
to give the publishers the option on the first serial
rights and publishing rights of his or her next two
full-length works concerning the prize-winning char-
acter on terms to be fair and reasonable.

4. The publishers shall have first refusal on fair and
reasonable terms of novels of suitable merit submitted
to the competition, other than the prize-winning novel.

5. All manuscripts must be written in the English
language, must be original and not an infringement of
copyright of any other person, and must not contain
matter that is libelous or scandalous. Manuscripts
must be typewritten, with double spacing, on one side
of the page only.

6. The competition is open to any author through-
out the world. The length of each manuscript must
be not less than 70,000 words or more than 100,000,
and competitors should bear in mind the possibility
of writing further stories embodying the same
character.

7. Sufficient postage for the return of each work
must accompany each manuscript, and the author’s
full name and address should be attached. Parcels
should be marked clearly: Mystery Novel Contest,
and addressed either to J. B. Lippincott Company,
Washington Square, Philadelphia, or Mystery Maca-
ZINE, 55 Fifth Avenue, New York City, or George G.
Harrap and Company, Ltd., Parker Street, Kingsway,
London W. C. 2, England.

8. The competition opened on December 1, 1934
and closes July 31, 1935. The winning book will be
published in America and England within one year
after the prize is awarded.

9. Competitors must agree to accept the decision
of the publishers and their judges as final and legally
binding, and, further, it must be definitely under-
stood that neither the publishers nor the judges can
enter into any correspondence with regard to entries
submitted.

10. Every care will be taken of manuscripts sub-
mitted, but the publishers cannot be held responsible
for any loss or damage.

11. Novels may be submitted under a nom-de-plume,
if the author, for any reason, does not wish to divulge
his identity.

Here are Bright Ideas
Worth Special Mention

HY not try a

little treasure

hunting in your
bureau drawers this
month? It’s surprising
how much can be sal-
vaged through the ad-
vantageous use of a good dye. Undies
that don't wear out quickly have a way
of losing their interest with many
launderings, even if one takes quite lov-
ing care of them. Tucked away in a
corner you can always find step-ins or
nighties that are just on the emer-
gency list—that don't get worn to the
bitter end, somehow, and yet you can't
throw them out.

Of course, it is better psychology to
step such semi-discards up to style by
turning them into the dernier cri with
a new color than by dousing them in a
dye vat and making them just pink or
blue or what-not. Undies have indi-
viduality this year.

One well-known dye manufacturer has
discovered that, to get women to realize
the possibilities of dye as a real re-
furbisher of wardrobes, he must give
them something other than the stand-
ard colors. He couldn't afford to mix
a new palette for Madame Fashion four
times, or more, a year. But he has done
something more interesting and we think
women are going to catch on with a
whoops-my-dear ! Z ing us how
we can take a good dress, or anything
else, whose colors have become faded or
post-season, and dye it into style.

The whole thing is done very simply
and easily. First his stylists work out
at the beginning of each season just
what colors or shades are to be high-
style. There’s quite a to-do with Paris
and the fashion journals to determine
such delicate matters. Then the chem-
ists work out a formula so that you may
know just how to take two or more
standard colors, and in what propor-
tions, to create in a jiffy the new shade.
Then into the dye go your unmention-
ables or what-have-you, and voila! you
are a fashionable woman for something
like a dime.

One of the most radical improvements
that has been made in home dyeing
technique is this business of selective
dyeing. How it’s chemically possible we
don’t understand. But it is pretty fas-
cinating to be able to buy a dye that
will tint one part of a garment some
new fashionable shade and leave its lace
trimming white, if that’s the idea you
have in mind. And to be able to take
the color out of a dress, re-dye it a new
smart color without harming the fabric
is practically magical, isn’t it?

Color is so important psychologically
that, these days, it is positively fool-
hardy not to clutch at its possibilities
for one's clothes and surroundings.
Fresh paint and paper do the household
job and good dyes can make shabbiness
in curtains or clothing into style or, at
least, livability. An article well and
tastefully re-colored can pull itself
promptly into fashion and a fine new
spot in your affections.

Dye manufacturers have helpful book-
lets. Tower's Home Service Dept., 55
Fifth Ave., N. Y. will send you some if
you write in.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Fairleigh, so now I’m going to stick
around and find out for my—”

“Stop it! Stop this foolish talking
and tell me where my child is—who
are these men?—what do they want?
—what business have—”

“Listen, lady,” Herschman put in,
“answer me a few questions and I'll
tell you where your child is."

*You know?" She released her hold
on Fairleigh and turned toward the
inspector, her eyes blazing.

“Yes, I know, but first—”

“Then tell me, tell me where he is—
what does he look like—I haven’t seen
him for fourteen years— fourteen
years I’ve wanted him and longed for
him, but he wouldn’t let me see him—
I haven’t known where he was or who
had him or even if he was alive at
all—he said not until he died would I
know—that was his punishment—he
said I was ‘bad’—when he was dead
he didn’t care—he said that then Mr.
Fairleigh could tell me—but as long
as he was alive I wouldn't know—I
wouldn’t even—”

“Linda! Please!” Fairleigh tried to
stop her, but it was no use now. She
poured forth the story to Herschman.

“Fourteen years—he must be a big
boy now, almost as big as his father,
and he’s mine, he’s all I have—but
I’ve never had him—only once, right
after he was born—just once I held
him in my arms, my baby, my little
Davie, and then they took him away,
and I never saw him again, and he
was all I had, part of me—and of
David—big David—and all these years
Ive lived and hated and waited and
wanted him dead—and now he's dead
—you’ve got to tell me—where have
you got him—he said he didn’t care
after he was dead—what—”

“Listen, Miss Crossley!” This time
it was Herschman who shook her, try-
ing to stem the flow of her hysteria.
*D]l tell you where he is. But first
you’ve got to answer some questions
for me. First, you’ve—”

“No, no, tell me now—take me to
him—let me see him—then I’ll answer
anything, do anything, say anything—
but my child first—my little Davie—”

She was obsessed as only a woman
can be, possessed by the urgency of
her own purpose. She was like water
held back, piled up, that finally bursts
its dam in a wild, rushing flood that
cannot be stemmed but must run its
course.

Herschman relinquished her arm,
defeated for the moment.

“Your child is with a family named
Polk in West Albion, New Jersey. I'll
take you to him and then you'll—"

She was already at the door, drag-
ging the inspector with her, her eyes
alight with a hungry, half-mad expec-
tancy. The district attorney followed
close on their heels.

T was not until they got into the

car outside that they noticed the
absence of Spike and the second police
car containing Mellett. But they didn't
stop to investigate. The car turned
its long, shining nose toward the Hol-
land Tunnel, wound its way through
the tortuous streets of lower Manhat-
tan. Linda Crossley sat between the
two men, tense, her hands in her lap
gripping nothing but her own taut
emotions, her eyes staring at the back
of the chauffeur as if by some urgent
telepathy she might increase their
speed.

They turned into Varick street.
started north. The road was clear and
the lights were green. They sped for-
ward. Then suddenly the chauffeur
crashed on the brakes with a grind-
ing squeal and the three in the back
lurched forward.

*What the hell?"

Another car with the insignia of the
New York police department had cut
alongside, crowded the inspector's car
over to the curb. A man jumped out.
It was Mellett. He motioned to the
district attorney to get out, to come
with him to the other car whose cur-
tains were mysteriously drawn.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

(Continued from page 40)

The district attorney looked puzzled
but followed him, stuck his head in-
side the other car.

“Philip What on earth—"

Spike held up a peremptory hand for
silence. “Can it just now, Richard.
Detail Mellett to go along with her
and you and Herschman come back
to Headquarters with me."

*But why—"

“T know it sounds goofy, but I've—
well, I've got à hunch. Don't ask me
what it is, but just come. You can
trust Mellett to go along with her and
deliver her back. Only hurry."

There was something in the terse
insistency of his tone, something au-
thoritative and sure, despite the neb-
ulousness of the ‘hunch’. The district
attorney hesitated, then went back to
the other car, motioned Herschman to
get out.

There was a brief colloquy, swift
directions to Mellett. Then Hersch-
man and the district attorney came
over to Spike's car.

*What the hell—" It was Hersch-
man, but Spike cut him short.

*Not now, Inspector. Just do as I
say without questions. We've got to
beat it back to headquarters quick."
The car was already in motion. As it
swung away from the other one they
could see the face of Linda Crossley
looking back—bewilderment, question,
mingling with that urgent, mad expec-
tancy.

The three men did not speak. Traffic
gave way before the screaming siren
of their car. They raced past green
lights and red. In ten minutes they
were at Headquarters, tumbling out
of the car. They didn't wait for the
elevator but ran up the broad, marble
stairs to the second floor.

Spike was in the lead. The other
two followed, but at a slower pace.
He went up the stairs two at a time.
He made straight for the district at-
torney's office, burst it open, dashed
across the room.

When Herschman and the district
attorney arrived he met them at the
door, on his face a look of fears con-
firmed.

“Look!”
desk.

They looked. Their faces went com-
pletely blank.

“But what is it? What is the mat-
ter?”

“Here, come close.” He motioned
them across the room to the desk.
“Here!” He pointed to the blotter, to
one of the leather corners.

The district attorney and the in-
spector leaned forward, peered at the
tiny bit of paper that stuck out from
under the diagonal of leather.

Dark blue . . . post office . . . &
queen's head... two penny...

It was the two-penny Mauritius
“post office" stamp, missing from the
collection of the late Prentice Cross-
ley. Its catalog valuation was $17,000.

CHAPTER XXVIII

He pointed toward the

Herschman pressed a buzzer and al-
most immediately Lovelace, the dis-
trict attorney's secretary, appeared.

“Who’s been here since we left?"
Herschman demanded.

Lovelace, a quiet young man of ex-
treme earnestness, blinked behind the
heavy lenses of his spectacles.

“No one."

*No one called to see Mr. Tracy?"

“No, sir.”

“Anyone been in this room?”

“No, sir.”

“Sure?”

“Of course. Anyone coming in here
would have to pass me in the outer
office, and no one has.”

“You were at your desk all the
time?”

“Yes, sir. The only time I left it
was to come in here myself to get a
letter from the file.”

“Notice anything when you were in
here?”

“Anything? No.”
bewildered.

He was plainly

Herschman gave him a curt nod of
dismissal.

“Well, no one got in by that door,”
he said when the secretary had left,
“but what about that one?” He in-
dicated another door on the further
side of the room. He got up and
walked across and opened it. It led
into another office, temporarily unoc-
cupid: which in turn gave onto the

all.

“In other words,” said Spike, *who-
ever left that stamp in here, came in
that way."

The inspector nodded.
were knitted in a frown.

For fifteen minutes the three men
sat in the district attorney's office try-
ing vainly to explain this new and
puzzling angle of an already inexpli-
cable puzzle.

At length Herschman rose. At the
district attorney's desk he picked up
the stamp with a tiny pair of metal
tweezers, laid it carefully on a piece
of paper, which in turn he put into an
envelope. "I'm putting this with the
other one," he said and started to-
ward the door.

Spike rose, too. “Listen, Inspector,
let's look at that other one, the one
they took from the hand of Mrs.
Ealing."

His brows

e
GPIKE accompanied the inspector
down the corridor to his office. They
went in and Herschman crossed im-
mediately to the big safe at the far
side of the room where he stored ex-
hibits. He stooped, rested on his heels
and twiddled the combination knob.

“Good God!” It was Spike from the
other side of the room.

The inspector paused, turned and
looked over his shoulder.

“Look!” Spike was pointing to the
desk, and on his face there was an ex-
pression slightly akin to horror.

Herschman shoved the envelope con-
taining the stamp into the safe, swung
the door shut and crossed quickly to
the desk. It was there—another one
—a tiny piece of paper that stuck out
from under the leather corner of the
blotter.

It was the nine-kreuzer Baden of
the Crossley collection, worth $11,000.

For a moment the inspector looked
from the stamp to Spike. Then he
leaped to the door through which they
had just come. In the anteroom out-
side there was a stenographer.

“Who’s been in this office since I
left it?” he barked.

The stenographer looked startled.
“No one,” she said.

“You’re sure about that?"

“Why, yes, Inspector. Anyone that
went in would have to pass me, and
no one has."

* And you've been here all the time?
You haven't left this office since I left
an hour ago?"

* Why, no, of course—"

*Didn't I see you come down the
hall and enter this office just before
Mr. Tracy and I came in? Didn't I?"

*But that was just for a minute. I
just went down the hall and around
the corner to the water cooler to get
a drink and I came right back."

“You entered the office just a few
steps ahead of us?"

“Yes.”

The inspector whirled and con-
fronted Spike. The two of them
searched the inner office with their
eyes. Unlike the district attorney’s of-
fice it had only one door, only one en-
trance, and that through the ante-
room.

“In other words,” Spike said, and
his voice held that awed whisper of
one who has stumbled on something
momentous and fearsome. “In other
words, someone came into this room
less than five minutes ago and placed
that stamp here. That means that the
person we're looking for, the mur-
derer, may still be in this building.
Quick, Inspector, quick!”

, But the inspector needed no direc-
tions. He leaped to his desk, pressed
a buzzer, picked up the telephone.

“Lock all doors . . . extra squad of
men on each floor . . . don't let anyone
out...”

Commands rattled. Patrolmen rushed
into the room, took their orders and
were gone. “ , .. men posted at every
door... Parton and Medlin line every-
body up in the lower hall..."

He turned and started to rush from
the room. Spike grabbed his arm.
“One more thing, Inspector!”
Herschman tried to shake him off.
“Don’t stop me now. I've got—”
Spike jerked him roughly back to
the desk. “This is important,” he
snapped. “Get on the telephone quick
and locate everyone concerned in the
whole damn case. Find out where they

are—now, this minute. Don’t you
see?”

Suddenly Herschman saw. He
grabbed one telephone, shoved a

second toward Spike.

They barked names and numbers
into the receivers. “... let me speak
to Mr. Fream... Miss Ealing, this

is the . . . Mr. Fairleigh, I'll have
to ask you to... get Homer Wat-
son..."

Spike even called the hospital and
had them connect him with Koenig's
bedside telephone.

They were all there on the other
end of the wire—Fream, Maysie Eal-
ing, Homer Watson, Koenig, Fair-
leigh.

*And Mellett's keeping tab on the
Crossley dame," Herschman snapped.

“We couldn't be mistaken in their
voices on the phone, could we?" Spike
questioned.

*No, I don't think so, but just to
make sure I'll send men around." He
pressed a buzzer and another order
rattled out.

Downstairs Headquarters was like a
walled town under siege. Only the
besiegers were within and not with-
out. In the main rotunda on the
ground floor the crowd milled about,
irritated, bewildered. They hurled
questions ineffectually against the
patrolmen who barred all exits. Every
name and address was taken, every

erson in the building was scrutinized,
interviewed — janitors, visitors, em-
ployes, patrolmen. Some looked fright-
ened and guilty; some were pleasantly
excited and innocent. Some were out-
raged and insulted.

AL the end of two hours the inspec-
tor and his aides had finished their
inquisition. He returned to his office
his shoulders sagging. The district
attorney and Spike were there waiting
for him.

“Nothing doing,” he said. He picked
up the telephone, gave a final order.
“Unlock the doors; let ’em all go.”
He replaced the receiver in a gesture
of defeat. “Not a one in the lot you
could hang anything on. It’s got me
down. I don’t know what it means?”
He dropped into his chair with an ex-
hausted sigh.

For a few moments the three men
sat in taut, nervous silence. The late
afternoon sun beat in at the open win-
dow. The air was heavy with heat
and humidity. Spike took off his neck-
tie, left his collar open at the throat.
Presently he rose and tamped out his
cigarette.

“TIl be back in a minute," he said
and went out of the office and down
the hall toward the men’s room.

But the “minute” stretched itself
out to almost an hour. They found
him finally hunched down in the bot-
tom of one of the telephone booths in
the upper hall. He was unconscious.

And inside his cigarette case they
found that strangest of all philatelic
aberrations—two stamps joined to-
gether, one upside down, the other
right side up— a ‘tete beche” . . . head
of Ceres, goddess of plenty, yellowish
with a vermilion background.

It was the 1-franc 1849, the most
valuable “tete beche" in the world—
from the Crossley collection.

(Please turn to page 46)

CHAPTER XXIX

T night the inspector in his
apartment in the Bronx slept fit-
fully despite the attentions of a body-
guard of two brawny patrolmen who
spelled each other in standing guard
before the only possible entrance to
his bedroom.

Likewise the district attorney.
Rather than endanger the lives of
the little woman and the kiddie who
waited for him at the summer resi-
dence just outside of Saugus, he spent
the night in town, at the largest and
most bustling of midtown hotels, per-
sonally attended by two men in uni-
form.

But Spike at his apartment on East
102nd Street observed no such precau-
tions. They—the district attorney
and the inspector—had urged him to
follow their lead and avail himself
of the protective facilities of the New
York police department, but his atti-
tude had been singularly quixotic.

“If the killer comes,” he said said,
and his voice trembled with unspoken
menace, “I shall be waiting for him.
I shall not be caught napping.”

Yet that was exactly what he in-
dulged in. From police headquarters
he went directly home and took a
drink, a smoke and a nap. After-
ward he took a shower, his dinner and
his car from the garage. It was
eight-thirty when he turned it west-
ward into the gaping white maw of
the Holland Tunnel.

It was past one when he returned.
He locked the door of his apartment
and threw wide the bedroom window
leading onto the fire escape. Then he
turned out the light.

For a long time he lay looking out
into the city night . . . thinking... .
He looked at his watch. . . . Two-
thirty. . . . He reached for the tele-
phone, called a number.

“Sorry to get you out of bed at this
hour, George," he said presently when
the connection was made, “but I've
got a story for you. . . . Yes it's ex-
clusive with you if you'll promise to
break it in the first edition tomorrow,
the one that gets onto the street
around ten. . . . No, no. Something
that happened this afternoon at head-
quarters. You boys were all so busy
streaking it out to West Albion that
there wasn't a one of you around, so
it will be a beat for you... ."

Spike appeared the following morn-
ing at police headquarters looking
eminently fit, rested and intact. As
he walked into the district attorney's
office where the inspector had already
preceeded him, he was met by two
sets of haggard eyes whose owners
had obviously spent a sleepless and
nerve-racking night. They looked at
him in silent, miserable question.

He flung himself carelessly into the
nearest easy chair, lit a cigarette and
smiled benignly on the two gentle-
men in front of him.

“I did not," he said, “have the
pleasure of the killer’s company last
night. How about you two?”

Herschman chewed his cigar and
the district attorney deepened his
frown. They seemed to think that
their mere presence, alive and in one
piece was sufficient answer.

“I did not, however, spend all of
my time waiting for our homicidal
friend,” he went on to explain. “I
improved part of the shining moments
since I saw you last dashing out to
West Albion.”

Herschman who had been looking
moodily out of the window became
interested.

“I took the liberty, Inspector, of
telling Mellett that I’d report to you.
He’s staying out there until you send
him some relief and I’d suggest you do
it right away, although his job’s not
arduous. I don’t think there’s much
danger of Linda Crossley getting
away now. I saw her and talked to
her and she pretty much spilled the
whole bag of beans.”

“Yeah?” Herschman’s eyes lighted

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

(Continued from page 45)

up with sudden exasperation. “Well,
go on and spill ’em to us.”

“It’s her child, all right," Spike
continued. “Hers and David Ealing’s.”

“Whol”

“David Ealing, Maysie Ealing's
brother. Remember the picture, the
one that was in the Saugus Index?"

Both Herschman and the district at-
torney nodded.

* Well, that's the father of the child.
She met him years ago during the
War. She was doing some kind of
Red Cross work, sort of got out from
under her grandfather's thumb for
the first time. Ealing was about to
sail for France. They—well, the in-
evitable occurred. It wasn’t just a
passing affair, though. They were
deeply in love. They were going to
be married when he got back. But
he never came back. ‘Missing in ac-
tion.’ Old Mrs. Ealing got the notifi-
cation from the War Department just
five months before Linda Crossley's
baby was born. That's how Linda
found out. She hadn't dared have his
letters sent to her house.

“They were all sent in care of his
mother and sister. Maysie slipped
them to her. Letters and that bayonet
—a war souvenir. He sent two of
'em home, one for his sister and one
éor Linda. Got 'em off dead Ger-
mans probably. Anyway it was the
only thing she dared keep. She had
to burn his letters. Afraid her grand-
father might find them. That bloody
bayonet was the only memento she
had of the father of her child.

*When the old man found out his
granddaughter was going to have a
baby he raised holy hell Acted just
like a moving picture. And I must
say that Linda acted a bit that way
herself. She refused to tell who the
man was. No reason why she shouldn't.
But that's beside the point. The old
man declared that he'd never permit
her to keep the child. She fought him
every way she could, but the cards
were stacked against her. And any-
way she was only nineteen, and she
hadn't a friend in the world outside
of old Mrs. Ealing and Maysie, and
they, of course, were on the q.t.

“Old Crossley let her see the baby
just once. Then he handed it over to
Fairleigh and had him put it out with
the Polks. She never knew where it
was. Crossley told her she never
would know, until he died. Then he
didn't care what happened. But she
knew that Fairleigh knew.

TT the first year or so after the
child was born she was too broken
down with grief over the father’s
death to put up much of a fight. And
anyway she was only a girl at the
time and frightened and scared of
everything. As the years went on,
though, the longing to see her child
grew. Time after time she begged
Fairleigh to break his word to her
grandfather and tell her. But Fair-
leigh is one of those damnable eggs
whose word is his bond. He had given
the old man his promise and just as
a matter of abstract principle he
wouldn’t tell her. ‘A man of honor.’
And of course there was that little
matter of $50,000 in the will.

“She tried every way she could
within her pitifully limited means to
find out where the child was. She
even went to fortune tellers. One of
'em went off into one of these fake
trances and said she would find hap-
piness in a place called Saugus. Linda
looked up the town, found it was on
Long Island and had the picture of
David Ealing inserted in the paper.
She remembered that the child had
resembled his father even as a tiny
baby. Maysie did the actual insert-
ing, of course. Linda never could get
away from home and the old man
long enough to do it. Maysie thought
it was silly but she did it to humor
her. In all these years the only real
*riend she had in the world was Maysie.
Their meetings were on the sly.

“Finally about six months ago

Linda went to Maysie and said that
she couldn’t go on any longer, that
she had to find her child, that it was
the only thing she had in her life and
she didn’t have that. She was going
to kill herself. Maysie could see the
condition she was in. She knew that
Linda had at last come to the break-
ing point and that something had to
be done, so she told her that she, May-
sie, would make one last desperate
attempt to locate the child.

“Just then chance played into her
hand. Fairleigh needed a new secre-
tary, advertised for one, and Maysie
got the job. She started staying late
and systematically going through all
of Fairleigh’s stuff—his files, his
records, trying to get into his per-
sonal safe, hoping she’d come across
some memorandum of some sort that
would tell her where the child was.
But it was no go. Finally she had
to admit as much to Linda.

“They met again in the park—the
night the old man was killed.”

Spike paused.

“What time?” Herschman put in
quickly.

“Early. Around nine-thirty.”

“How long were they there—in the
park.”

“About an hour. Maysie admitted
that she was stumped, that she’d run
into a blind alley, that she couldn’t
find out a thing. From what I can
make out from Linda’s account of the
meeting she, Linda, went half crazy.
She started back to the house on Fifth
Avenue. Maysie wanted to go with
her, but Linda wouldn’t let her. She
returned to the house alone, went
in—”

Spike broke off abruptly. His
brows drew into a creased frown as
if he were thinking hard. But the in-
spector paid no attention. Instead he
jumped into the breach.

“She went in and found the old man
there,” Herschman continued the
story with sudden determination.
“She found him asleep. She was mad
crazy. She knew that when he died
Fairleigh would have to reveal the
whereabouts of her child. She went
upstairs and got this bayonet this
guy had sent her and killed him.”
Herschman finished off with a flourish,
his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“And then I suppose,” Spike put in
quietly, “six days later she came back
and murdered old lady Ealing, just
for the fun of it.”

“Sure. She's crazy. Stark, raving
crazy. The strain of these fifteen
years has been too much for her. It
has unbalanced her mind. Crazy
people are like that. They sometimes
harm the ones that mean the most to
them. Once she started killing, every-
thing got mixed up in her mind.”

Spike lit another cigarette, blew a
long cloud of smoke into the air.

“I imagine,” he said quietly, “that
that is just what Fairleigh and May-
sie Ealing thought.”

“How do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Knowing the
circumstances, knowing Linda’s obses-
sion, knowing that she was on the
point of madness almost in her de-
sire to find her child, Fairleigh and
Maysie concluded that she had really
tipped over the edge. That, I fancy,
is why they’ve told so many godawful,
clumsy lies on the one hand, or, on
the other hand, shut up like clams
and refused to talk at all. They be-
lieved that her brain had snapped,
that in the first fit of madness she
killed her uncle, and then killed old
Mrs. Ealing and took a pot shot at
Koenig. They were doing their best—
although each one was working abso-
lutely independent of the other—to
protect her, to befog the issue.

“That accounts for Maysie Ealing’s
surprising statement that she was the
mother of the child in question. She
knew that if we found out the cir-
cumstances, if we knew that the child
was Linda Crossley’s, and that for
years she had been kept in ignorance
of its whereabouts, we might jump to

the same erroneous conclusion that
she had.”

“Erroneous conclusion? What do
you mean erroneous conclusion?”
Herschman was slightly indignant.

Spike smiled. “I mean erroneous
conclusion, Inspector. That's what it
is, you know."

*[ don't know anything of the kind.

“Arent you forgetting about—
about the stamps."

“No, of course not. She knew the
combination to her grandfather’s
safe. Easiest thing in the world for
her to lift 'em. And then leave ’em
around after she’d done in the old
lady and Koenig. A nutty thing to
do, but that just proves the theory.
Only a person that was insane would
do such a thing.”

“But, Inspector,” Spike put in
mildly, “I’m afraid that in the heat of
your theorizing you’ve forgotten yes-
terday afternoon.”

For a moment Herschman just
looked at him. The light went out of
his eyes and his whole face sagged.

“Yeah,” he admitted slowly, “that’s
true but—" He rose and paced the
floor, his hands jammed into his
pockets.

“But where,” he said finally and his
voice was full of angry frustration,
"but where the hell does that leave
us?"

“Still holding the bag," said Spike
complacently. He drew in a long,
deep breath of smoke, let it out slowly.

*You know," he said, half to him-
self, half aloud, “I’ve a feeling that
this ease is what they call the ‘perfect
crime’—that thing you hear about so:
much. And being a ‘perfect’ crime,
it is, of course unsolvable."

CHAPTER XXX

nig sitting up in bed, his arm

-in a sling, reading the morning

papers. Physically he seemed
greatly improved, but his eyes held a
look of infinite anxiety and in his
voice there was reproach as he
greeted his visitor.

“It is so long, my friend, since I
have seen you, and there are so many
things—I've had to get them all from
the papers." He pointed to the morn-
ing's headlines. *Linda—tell me about
her. You have seen her? She is
safe? She is happy?"

Spike drew up a chair and seated
himself. He smiled gently at the little
round, anxious man in the bed.

“Very happy," he said quietly. “I
saw her last night." Briefly he re-
lated the story of his trip to West
Albion the previous evening. “She
was almost beside herself with hap-
piness. She had her child—at last."

“And what kind of a child is he?
Does he love her as he should? And
who are these Polk people?"

“He’s a nice lad, but just at present
he's naturally a good bit bewildered.
He hasn't had time to love Linda as
he should. She has only just been
thrust upon him in the midst of a
puzzling turmoil. The Polks are the
kind of people who are the salt of the
earth. Mrs. Polk confided to me last
night that Linda was going to stay
with them for a while or perhaps take
a little cottage next door so that both
may share the boy."

Koenig lay back against the pil-

A" the hospital Spike found Koe-

lows with a contented sigh. “Linda,
dear Linda,” he murmured. “At
lasts 2"

Slowly the smile faded from Spike’s
face. He grew troubled.

“I’m afraid, though,” he said, “that
it is not going to be all smooth sail-
ing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I'm afraid it's going to
take some hard stretching to make
the police believe Linda's version of
the night of June 4, the night her
grandfather was murdered."

Koenig sat up in bed. Like Spike
he was suddenly sober and thoughtful.

“What does she say of her where-

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

abouts the day Mrs. Ealing was
killed?” he demanded.

“She doesn’t say. I didn’t ask her.
I couldn’t spoil those first ecstatic
hours with her child. I couldn’t smear
them over with questions and probings
and murder and suspicion.”

Again Koenig was thoughtful.
Then suddenly he turned to Spike.

“Look here," he said, “it is self-
evident, is it not, that these murders
were done by the same person?"

“Yes,” Spike admitted, “I think we
may safely infer that. The person
who murdered Crossley is identical
with the person who murdered Mrs.
Ealing, and tried to get you but
missed. In each of the three instances
the murderer has left a trade-mark
—one of the valuable Crossley
stamps.”

“Very well, then,” Koenig went on,
"what if the police don’t believe
Linda's story of her movements on
the night her grandfather was mur-
dered? What if she has no logical,
credible alibi for the day on which
Mrs. Ealing was murdered? What
about the third murder—or rather I
should say the third attempted mur-
der—me?"

“Yes, what about it?"

“Why, is it not plain enough? That
night, the night on which the attempt
was made on my life, Linda was safe
in the apartment of Maysie Ealing.
She couldn't possibly have made the
attempt on my life, so it must follow
that she is equally innocent of the
other two crimes."

Koenig finished off with a little
flourish of triumph and again lay
back against his pillows in great con-
tentment. Spike rose from his chair
took a turn up and down the room. At
last he paused beside the bed, looked

down at Koenig.
of fact,” he said

*As a matter i
quietly, “Linda wasn’t at Maysie
Ealing’s apartment that night.”

Koenig stared at him. ‘“What—
what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that she wasn’t at May-
sie Ealing’s that night.”

Koenig’s mouth dropped open. He
stared at Spike.

“But—but that telephone call?”

“That was a fake.”

“A fake?”

“Yes, it was my man, Pug. He was
lying.”

Koenig's hands worked ¢onvulsively
with the covers.

*But why—why?"

“Because—” Spike broke off. His
eyes swept the white hospital room,
disconcerted, uneasy.

*Look here, Koenig, we can't talk
here, and we've got to talk. Do you
feel well enough—do you think you
could go home, now, today?"

For answer Koenig reached for the
electric bell on the bedside table, and
at the same time threw off the covers.

There was red tape and irritating
details—a formal discharge to be
signed by the doctor, a stiff, starchy
superintendent of nurses fussing
about and adding to the complications.
Koenig was still a bit wobbly and
Spike insisted that he go home in the
ambulance. It was fully two hours
before they were finally back in
Koenig's little rear-of-the-shop apart-
ment on East Thirty-sixth Street. The
ambulance attendants took their leave,
and Spike stowed away in a dressing
alcove the bag containing Koenig’s
clothes brought from the hospital.
Koenig himself was propped up
against the high pillows of his own
bed. He had dismissed his clerk for
the afternoon and closed the stamp
shop. They were quite alone.

“Now, my friend,” Koenig said at
last, “Now, go on. You were telling
me—” He waited for Spike to take up
the thread of the conversation they
had begun in the hospital.

Spike drew up a chair and sat down
beside the bed.

“I was telling you that Linda
Crossley was not at Maysie Ealing's
house the night you were shot, and

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

HE KILLED A THOUSAND

that that telephone call was a fake.
It was Pug, my man, and he was ly-
ing."

*But why should he lie?"

“Because—” Spike broke off in un-
certainty. “Look here, Koenig, I
know everything, the whole story, the
how’s and the who’s and the when’s.
There’s just one thing I don’t know
and that is the—" Again he broke off.
He rose from his chair, kicked it away
from him almost savagely and strode
over to the opposite side of the room
where he had laid his hat and the
afternoon paper he had bought on the
way up to the hospital. He snatched
it up, thrust it at Koenig.

The little round man propped the
page up in front of him and his eyes
slowly covered the headlines.

STAMP MURDERER VISITS
POLICE HEADQUARTERS

Crossley-Ealing Killer Escapes City

Hall Trap—but Marks Trail with
Balance of Stolen Stamps.
Koenig reached for his reading

glasses on the table beside his bed.
Then slowly he read the story of those
three tense hours that District At-
torney Tracy, Inspector Herschman
and Spike had spent the previous
afternoon with the wily Crossley-
Ealing murderer just beyond their
grasp.

When he had finished he laid the
paper down slowly, folded it neatly,
placed it on the reading table. He
took off his glasses and placed them
on top of it.

“I think," he said quietly, “I will
get up and put on my clothes.”

“Do you think you’re able?” Spike
asked, but the question seemed rhe-
torical. He made no move to help the
sick man. Koenig retired to the dress-
ing aleove where Spike had put the
bag containing his clothes. It was a
long time before he emerged, but
when he did he was fully dressed. He
had managed even to achieve some-
thing of his old air of the dandy de-
spite the handicap of his cripped arm,
and his steps were fairly steady as he
crossed the room.

He picked up the newspaper Spike
had given him, and seated himself on
one of the chairs in front of the
empty fireplace. He motioned Spike
to the one opposite. Presently he
spoke.

“Since, my friend," he began and
his voice was low, and slightly hoarse,
“since you say you know—everything,
how—how did this happen?" He in-
dicated the paper in his lap.

Spike smiled a bit ruefully. “That?
Oh, I staged all that myself."

There was a long silence.
Koenig spoke again.

*You were saying that.you know
everything. The how's and the who's
and the when's?"

*Yes, everything. Everything but
the why. That’s all that troubles me.
I even know all about David Ealing."

"All about David Ealing?" There
was a slight emphasis on the first
word.

Spike hesitated before answering.
*No, not all. I thought perhaps you
might be able to tell me—what I
don't know—about David Ealing."

Another long silence. Spike waited.
Presently Koenig rose and started
pacing the floor, the strange, funny
clumsy peasant shoes he still wore
clumping with a flat dull sound as he
walked up and down.

“I first met David Ealing in Octo-
ber, 1918." Koenig began speaking.
His voice had that far-off quality of
things long ago and remote, overlaid
with years and tragedy.

“But first I must go back. I am
fifty now. I was thirty-five then in
1918. Before that when I was still
younger I had come to America to
work in the New York office of a firm
of Berlin textile merchants. I worked
here six years—until 1914. Then I
did what millions of poor, foolish, mis-

Then

MEN

guided German and Frenchmen and
Englishmen and Russians did. I went
to war.

“I had a family behind the lines
in Munich. No wife or children. I’ve
never married. But I had a mother
and two sisters and a younger brother.
Hugo! He was studying music. He
was going to be a cellist in one of the
great Berlin orchestras, and he had a
sweetheart. He was just a boy—only
nineteen—and he enlisted the first
month. He thought going to war
would be a great adventure. He was
killed in the Spring of 1915.

“My mother was aiways delicate.
She couldn't stand the civilian priva-
tions. She died the third year. Food
was very scarce that third year. My
sisters were nurses. One of them was
killed. The hospital she was working
in was shelled. The Germans weren't
the only ones who shelled hospitals.
The English did it and the French.
We all did it. It was all part of the
whole murderous debauch.

"It murdered your body and de-
bauched your soul!” Koenig’s voice
rose, impassioned with the horrible
memories of 1914-18.

“T went to war to kill and be killed.
But I only killed. I was one of the
charmed ones. I never even got what
the English used to call a ‘blighty’—a
nice, easy wound that invalided you
back to the rear, to the peace and
quiet and cleanliness of a hospital,
away from the bloody, stinking front.
For four years I killed. I killed with
bayonet and I killed with bullets and
grenades and gas and liquid fire.

“In the trenches we lived in slime
and muck and filth and vermin. And
when we were relieved and went to
the rear we lived on cheap women and
rotten liquor. Our souls were caught
up in that mad beastly frenzy. We
couldn’t live like men because men
don’t make war. It’s only beasts that
kill and mangle and torture each
other. So we lived like beasts. Our
souls were dead—dead, rotting and
stinking like the corpses that were
piled up all around us.

“And yet—” Koenig paused and his
voice softened. “Yet sometimes there
was a spark, a stirring beneath all
the blood and beastliness. There must
have been. Otherwise I would never
have known David Ealing. He would
have been just another one of that
unnamed, unnumbered company I had
killed and murdered and mutilated
and tortured.”

OR a few moments there was no

sound in the room. Koenig had
stopped his pacing now and was
seated once more quietly in his chair.
Spike had lighted a cigarette, but
it hung dead and smokeless from his
right hand. His eyes were on Koenig,
strangely fascinated.

“Tt was in October 1918," Koenig
went on quietly. “We were en-
trenched east of the Meuse in the
woods near Samogneux. The trenches
held by the Americans were a hun-
dred yards in front of us. Our artil-
lery laid down a barrage and we ad-
vanced under cover of it. We struck
the Americans at a weak point. We
were three to their one.

“I ean remember going under the
wire, over the top of the American
trench. We were using the bayonet.
I got two of them with my first lunge
down. After that, it was mostly hand
to hand fighting. We cleaned them
out of the trench. Then we charged
the dugouts. I rushed into one. There
was a man there. He raised his gun,
but I raised mine first. He went
down on his face, and his tin helmet

slewed over on one side. It looked
silly, grotesque that way.
“Something stopped me. I don’t

know what it was. At times like that,
there’s no reason in what you do.
There isn’t even instinct. It’s just
mad, silly, berserk fighting. You do
things for no reason at all. For no
reason at all, I stopped right in the
middle of the fighting, stock still there

in the dugout. I was all alone. There
was a kerosene lamp burning on the
table and it cast a feeble light.

“I bent over the man at my feet.
He was dead. I couldn’t see his face.
He was lying on it, and the helmet
was still hitched to his head in that
grotesque way. I unfastened the
strap, took it off. Then I turned the
body over so I could see the face.”

Koenig was silent, the memory of
that poignant, long-dead moment
pressing in upon him. His voice when
he took up the narrative again was
full of strange tenderness.

“It wasn’t a man really. It was
a boy. He couldn’t have been more
than twenty. His eyes were blue and
he had hair that was blond and wavy.
Just like Hugo’s. Something about
him reminded me of Hugo. Not only
physically, but— Well, I had a feel-
ing that he had faced the war like
Hugo, light hearted, a great adven-
ture, something glorious and exciting
that would soon be over with and then
he could go back to his home and his
sweetheart. I wondered if this boy
had a sweetheart.

"I knelt down beside him and
opened his coat. My shot had gone
straight through his heart. The in-
side of his shirt was sticky with blood.
There was some on the letters and
the photographs he carried in the
pocket inside his coat.”

Koenig rose from his chair, walked
across the room to the safe, stooped
down and turned the knob to the
right, left, right. The door swung
open. From an inner compartment he
drew forth a long, heavy manila en-
velope tied round with cord. He
swung the door of the safe shut again
and walked over to the table, motioned
Spike to his side.

“These, my friend," he said gently,
*are the letters I found in the pocket
of David Ealing the day I killed him
in a dugout on the Samogneux front
in October 1918. Read them."

Spike’s eyes met Koenig’s, then
dropped to the envelope in his hand.
Slowly he undid the cord. There were
three letters. The writing was faded
and the paper yellowed, and along the
edges there were dark brown stains.

Cpl. David Ealing
29th Division—116 Infantry,
A. E. F.—France.

Spike opened the letter. Snap shots
fell out. Two gitls arm in arm, in
strange long skirts to the ankles, wide
sashes, hair puffed out over the ears.
They were laughing directly into the
camera. One fair, one dark. Spike
walked to the window, held the pic-
ture up to the light, for it was faded
and dim. Maysie Ealing and Linda
Crossley—when they were young and
still able to laugh. On the back there
was an inscription. “Don’t let any
of the mademoiselles cut us out."

The second picture was the dark
girl—alone. And she wasn't laughing
in this one. There was a look in her
eyes that even the cheap snapshot
camera had caught—a look of brood-
ing fear and loneliness—and love. On
the back in the same handwriting:
"I'm thinking of you—L."

Spike unfolded the letter.

“My darling David: It is very late
and the house is sq quiet and this is
the time I like best to write to you.
For in this quietness I can feel you
near, I feel your dear arms... .”

He put the letter down. It was as
if he had invaded some sacred place
of the heart, had stirred the ashes
of a long dead love that had perished
in darkness and tragedy. He felt a
shamed intruder, a vandal, but still
he read on to the end.

* . .. and so, dear David, I talk
to this other dear David—at least I
hope he's a David—and tell him about
his daddy. He stirred for the first
time yesterday and it was like...”

At the end there was a single name
——* Linda."

(Please turn to page 48)

Spike folded the letter, put it back
in its envelope. He picked up the
second letter. The handwriting was
different.

“My dear Son... You don’t know
how glad we were to receive your let-
ter and to know that you are still
safe behind the lines. Let us hope.
. .. Linda comes as often as she can
get away from her grandfather and
she and Maysie spend most of their
time. . . . Did you get the socks and
sweater and chocolate I sent to...”

A mother's letter, trying to cover
the fear and dread that ate at her
heart with tidbits of family gossip,
the minutie of neighborhood life, and
over it all a resolute, heart-breaking
cheerfulness, pitiful in its palpable
falseness.

The third letter was from Maysie.

* ,, . Don't worry about anything
except keeping yourself out of the
way of bullets. Everything’s going
to be all right with Linda. She looks
fine and feels fine and is thrilled
about it all... and see if you can't
get me a soldier sweetheart too. It
gets awfully boring sitting around
listening to Linda go on about you
hour after hour. I ought to have
somebody to come back at her with
... I got a raise yesterday but prices
are going up. . . . Oh Buddie dear,
we miss you so. If anything should
happen—but it won't, it mustn't, it
can't. Mother keeps up well but I'm
afraid she couldn't stand up under it
if anything happened. . . ."

Spike folded the letters, put them
back into the envelope and retied the
cord. Koenig’s voice broke through
the silence.

“I read those letters for the first
time fifteen years ago—in a dugout
in France—beside the body of David
Ealing with the whole bloody, stink-
ing war crashing and yelling over my
head. I've read them many times
since.

“After the war I went into busi-
ness in Berlin. My one sister who
was left, married and moved to Aus-
tria. I was alone. I made money.
But my life was very ugly and bit-
ter and tasteless. That's what war
did to those that came out of it with
their bodies whole. Their spirits were
warped and twisted.

“T used to get out those letters and
re-read them. Of all the men I'd
killed he was the only one I'd ever
known. And I felt that I did know
him.

“It got to be an obsession with me.
David Ealing and those letters there.
It ate into my empty life until I
couldn't stand it any more. I had to
know the end of the story—the story
in which I had played so big a part.
So I came to America... ."

KOENIG had risen now. His back
was to Spike. He was standing
with his feet wide apart, his hands
clenched, his head thrown back gaz-
ing at the wall as if the tragic drama
was recreated on its blankness.
“And so I came to America. I
found out where Linda Crossley was
living. I found out where Maysie
Ealing was living. Maysie and her
mother. I never told them who I
really was. I hid behind the mask
of a kindly old stamp dealer and I
won my way into their hearts. And
I found out the end of the story.
“Tragedy hadn’t stopped with him.
When I killed him, I killed three other
lives, too. His mother, old, demented
with the shock of his death, living and
yet dead. His sister, fading, growing
old, supporting her mother, unable to
leave her, to go to England to her
sweetheart. Oh yes, she'd finally got-
ten herself a sweetheart. It was
about six years after the war. A
young English chap was over here
on business. They fell in love, des-
perately, irrevocably. But they
couldn't marry. She couldn't leave
her mother to go to England, and he
couldn't leave England to come here.
He had younger brothers and sisters.

HE KILLED A THOUSAND MEN

(Continued from page 47)

Both of them tied, separated with
responsibilities, eating their hearts
out, getting older all the time.

“And then there was the third life
—Linda. Ah, sweet, lovely, Linda,
my child! Ruin, desolation! Your
little David, the only thing you had
left of your great love torn from
you. Never, never to see him as long
as that old vulture lived. Never
to know where he was or what he
was like. Slowly going mad with the
weight of your own aching tragedy.

“And I—I was responsible. I had
killed him. If I hadn’t it never would
have happened. He would have come
back. He would have married Linda.
And Maysie would have married her
English boy. And old Mrs. Ealing
would have been a placid, contented
grandmother, and life would have
been happy. But J had sown tragedy
and desolation. J had ruined them.

“But there was a little hope left—
something might be saved—something
of happiness and contentment. For
the old woman, no. Death was best
for her. And so I killed her. And
now her daughter can marry the man
she loves before it's too late and she's
too old. And I killed Crossley, so
that Linda can have the child she
loves, before it's too late and she's too
old.

“You may say that I am demented,
mad myself. But you’re wrong. What
Ive done, I’ve done with the cool,
hard light of reason. I don't believe
in an avenging God or a torturing
hereafter. I don't believe in the false
ethics of man-made laws. I believe in
the rational here and now.

“Tye rescued the happiness of three
people. I've redressed as best I could
the wrong I did when I put a bullet
through the heart of David Ealing in
a French dugout fifteen years ago.

“Im your murderer. I'm a mur-
derer many times over. I’ve mur-
dered hundreds and thousands. And
each time I've sown desolation and
tragedy. Each time—except the last
two. Take me! Destroy me! You
can't hurt me now! I am content!"

CHAPTER XXXI

CLEVER, Koenig, damnably clever.”

There was something almost of
admiration in his voice. “But not quite
clever enough. You fooled me for a
long time, but not quite long enough.
You had me guessing, but not—"

Koenig held up his hand for silence.
The hand trembled slightly. *Please,"
he said. His voice was low and very
hoarse. ^If there are any questions—
you would like to ask—I will answer
them—but, please—no gloating—"

*Why shouldn't I gloat?" Spike put
in impatiently. “I beat you at your
own game, Koenig, and a damnably
clever game it was. And it would
have worked too if Linda Crossley
hadn't thrown a monkey wrench into
the works."

As the girl's name was mentioned,
Koenig turned suddenly, faced Spike.

“You do not think after all I have
told you that she had' anything to do
with—"

*No, no. Don't worry about that.
I know she’s innocent. I'll tell you
here and now that Linda Crossley
has been at my house on Sark Island
every minute until last Saturday
morning when she left and went
straight to Fairleigh's office and then
to West Albion. But you didn't know
that. And you didn't know that I
was hep to you a long time ago. I
was hep to you but I didn't have any
proof. And then you murdered Mrs.
Ealing and I got an idea. An idea
I thought would force your hand.

*[ fixed it up with my man Pug
to pull a big lie on you, to make you
think that Linda had left early the
morning Mrs. Ealing was killed. I
wanted to make you think that there
was a possibility that suspicion would
be thrown on her for the Ealing
murder too. I thought if I aroused
your fears enough on her behalf,

you'd break down and confess. But
you didn't.

*So I had you up to my place a
second night for dinner. Remember?
And I pulled a second fake on you—
that telephone call that was sup-
posedly from Maysie Ealing. Well,
that was my man, Pug, again. I'll
confess that I didn’t, at that time,
quite see to what extent your clever-
ness would take you..I thought you'd
go to Maysie Ealing's, find out Linda
wasn't there and then come rushing
back to my place. I was prepared to
tell you some more lies. I was even
going to tell you there was a warrant
out for her arrest. I thought surely
that would bring you around.

*But you were smart—at least you
thought you were smart. It would
have been smart too, if Linda Cross-
ley really had been at Maysie
Ealing’s. Sticking one of those
stamps in your own watch crystal and
then winging yourself at midnight in
the Park. A superficial flesh wound,
so that you had strength enough be-
fore you fainted from loss of blood to
sling the gun out into the middle of
Central Park lake.

“And that letter beforehand to
Linda just in case. . . . Oh, your
whole scheme of a self-inflicted
wound was clever. But it was your
undoing, Koenig, your undoing. With
you safe under the covers in the hos-
pital I had a chance I'd been waiting
for for a long time. A chance at
your shoes, those funny, clumsy,
peasant shoes. I slipped 'em out of
the locker where they were kept in
the hospital and I brought them home
with me and went to work on them,
and finally I found that very in-
genious little hollowed out space in
the left heel, and in there the three
remaining stamps from the Crossley
collection."

Spike paused in his agitated pac-
ing. He stood over Koenig, looking
down on him, exulting in his own
triumph.

“Taking those stamps, Koenig, was
pure genius. I understand it now.
'They were to be your incontrovertible
alibi. No one would accuse a stamp
dealer of taking such great rarities.”

“Just a moment." Koenig again
held up his hand in interruption. It
was steadier now, but his voice was
still hoarse with emotion. “There’s
one thing I would like to know. How
did you ‘get hep’ to me, as you say?
How did you know?”

“I didn't know—at first. I just had
a hunch—and I played it. Something
you said that night when you were

telling me about Fairleigh. You
said he was ‘a man of honor.’ You
said it contemptuously. I asked you

if you were a man of honor, and you
said, ‘No, thank God—but I have my
own code.’

“I sat up for a long time that
night just thinking about the impli-
cations of that remark. It was that—
and your shoes. Those funny,
clumsy shoes, and you such a dandy.
I got a wild idea and I decided to
try it out. That's why I pulled all
that stuff with Pug and the fake tele-
phone calls. I just had a hunch then,
but I've known ever since last Fri-
day when I got hold of your shoes."

Koenig was looking straight into
the triumphant eyes of the man who
had beaten him, trapped him at his
perilous game. There was something
in his unflinching gaze that cut off
the spate of words.

He picked up the bayonet and the
letters and held them out to Spike.
For a moment Spike only looked at
him. His brows wrinkled in a puz-
zled frown. Koenig pushed the ob-
jects toward him impatiently.

*Here, take them."

“But—what for?” Excitement and
triumph were halted before bewilder-
ment.

“For evidence, for exhibits,” Koenig
explained losing patience. “For evi-
dence before a court. Isn’t that what
you're after? Isn't that what you

want? For your brother—a convic-
tion?"

A moment of silence. Then Spike
spoke.

“You—you have me all wrong.”
He spoke slowly. He had not yet
recovered from the emotions of the
moment before and he was still dazed
with the sudden transition in his own
mood. It was as if he were feeling
his way through the words.

“You’ve got me all wrong. I wasn’t
after—evidence. If the things I’ve
done since last Friday seem—well,
crazy, it was only to make sure that—
that—”

He broke off. Impulsively he
grabbed Koenig's two hands in his.

“Koenig, you damn fool, don't you
know I'm a damn fool myself? Don't
you understand that all I've done
since last Friday was done just to
make sure the police would never get
wise? I was dragging a few red her-
rings of my own across the trail.
Don't you see?

“I was jockeying for a chance to
throw them completely off. And
then yesterday it came quite unex-
pectedly. Linda Crossley crashed into
the picture. I thought she would stay
put at Sark Island. But she couldn’t.
When she got stronger, she got to
thinking about her child and she went
crazy. She had waited fourteen years
and she couldn’t wait any longer.
They couldn’t hold her—Mrs. Par-
sons and Pug. That's why she
crashed into Fairleigh’s office yester-
ay.

“T hadn’t expected that. I knew
with her out of hiding I’d have to
act quickly—so I did. I pulled a fast
one. Two or three fast ones—all those
monkeyshines with the stamps. I
did all that you know—sticking
stamps around hither and yon, pre-
tending I was beaned on the head
and knocked out. Don’t you see?
I was just proving to them that you
and all the other people involved
couldn't possibly have had anything
to do with the case. Don’t you un-
derstand?"

It was Koenig's turn to look be-
wildered.

“Then why—all this—today?"

“Why? That’s why—the why. I
knew the how's and the who's and
the when's. I wanted to find out the
why’s. If I've seemed a bit—well,
overbearing in my self-satisfaction,
it's just that I'm a lousy winner."

As he spoke he picked up the let-
ters from the table.

“I love to play games and I love
to win and when I do I'm insufferable.
It doesn't make any difference what
the game is—poker, tennis, mur-
der, tick-tack-toe. Im unbearable
when—" With one swift movement
he tore the letters across. “—when I
win. Forgive me, Koenig! And for-
give my poking my nose into your
private affairs. I'm funny that way,
I guess." Another swift tear. “I’ve
always been insufferably curious."
Tear, tear. “Just plain nosey I guess
you’d call it.”

INY scraps of paper trickled from

his hands, formed a heap on the
hearthstone. He stooped, lit a match,
touched it to a corner. Flame licked
at the little heap, enveloped it in
miniature fury, left a small mountain
of ash.

He rose, dusted off his knees. “Of
course,” he said and grinned, “all this
is—ah—immoral. Most immoral!
Letting the dastard go scot free. One
of the things that just isn’t done
in our best detective stories, but
then—” He shrugged his shoulders
in indifference to the orthodox tech-
nigue of crime and punishment.

He picked up the bayonet. “TIl be
taking a boat ride tomorrow out to
Montauk Point,” he said significantly.

He reached for his hat and stick.
At the door he paused.

“If you're ever out my way, Koe-
nig, be sure and let me know. We'll
go fishing."

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Eyesight Regularly

The Blackboard Problem—as it looks to Jim and as it looks to Bill

ILL failed in arithmetic. He couldn’t

add blurry figures that wouldn’t
stand still. Poor vision is a tough handi-
cap to a child in school. At least one
in every ten has some form of defec-
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Many of these uncorrected defects are progressive
and cause increasing eyestrain and impairment of
vision. Eye-strain may lead to severe recurring head-
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ness and other disorders.

In older people there are other conditions of the
eyes which are far more serious than imperfect vision.
If untreated, they may eventually lead to blindness.
Glaucoma and cataract can be present and in the first
stages give little indication of their threat to your
sight. Recognized early, glaucoma may be successfully
treated; a cataract may be removed by an operation.

Good reading habits of young and old prevent many

A Special Warning
Contrary to a widespread idea that the
Fourth of July has been made “safe
and sane,” the National Society for the
Prevention of Blindness states that
the toll of accidents from fireworks
was greater last year than in many
previous years.

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below the line of vision. Hold your work or book
about 14 inches from your eyes.

Don't use public towels or rub your eyes. Conjunc
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FREDERICK H. ECKER, PRESIDENT

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

THE CLUE OF

out of the smoke and roar of giant
blast furnaces. Up there on the hill,
in the house just visible among the
stately trees, a girl lay dead, brutally
murdered. She had borne the mighty
name of Mackinson less than a year,
and there was dynamite in the
tragedy of her end. We turned in
and rolled up the shaded drive to
the house.

WE were sincerely welcomed to
the house by Sheriff Eben Lo-
man. The sheriff was a hill man,
slowspoken, honest and conscientious.
Distressed and overawed by this case,
uncertain how far its ramifications
might lead, he had decided on direct
appeal to the Department of Justice
in Washington; and the Department,
uncertain enough itself, was quick to
render aid. Sheriff Loman took us
directly to the scene of the crime,
accompanied by Mrs. Clapper, a
quiet, grim woman who served here
as housekeeper.

*Right here is where the body was
found," he told us, pointing morosely
to a bloodstained rug before the fire-
place in a sitting-room situated at
the rear of the house. It gavé on a
sunny easterly terrace, yet was a
gloomy room, I thought. The whole
house was gloomy, a huge brick build-
ing rather on the Georgian side, ivy
grown, deeply shaded by tall pines
and thick cedars, a monument erected
by the first Mackinson, in old age,
in the country of his birth.

Loman went on, *Mr. Mackinson,
the husband of the deceased, was in
the library at ten o’clock last night.
He was alone. All the others had
already gone to their rooms. They
heard the sound of a car starting up
suddenly and going down the drive
out of the place all speed. Not long
after there came a loud scream. It
was just like somebody being killed,
they say. Mr. Mackinson jumped up
and ran out of the library. Mrs.
Clapper came rushing downstairs.
They met in the hall. They couldn't
tell what had happened; they lighted
all the lights and searched the house.
They came on Mrs. Mackinson lying
right there. Her head was cut and
neck was twisted—broken, the cor-
oner said."

There were other details. The sil-
ver candlestick, for instance, which
lay against the brass guard rail of
the fireplace; from its position it
probably had fallen from the dead
woman's hand as she made a last
desperate effort to defend herself. A
French window leading on the ter-
race outside was open as when the
crime was discovered.

Max asked thoughtfully, “Mrs.
Mackinson evidently hadn’t retired.
How was she dressed?”

Mrs. Clapper made quick answer.
She was a broad, formidable ramrod
of fifty or so with unflinching opaque
eyes. “Mrs, Mackinson had on the
same simple dress and jacket of
Shantung silk she had worn all eve-
ning.”

“Were she and her husband on
good terms, Mrs. Clapper?"

The woman shrugged. “Good
enough, I should say. I'll be frank
and tell you that there had been a
quarrel yesterday. It was no different
from any other first-year spat. Jeal-
ousy and all that. They were both
young."

*Where's young Mackinson now?"

*He's upstairs. Resting.”

The sheriff said bluntly. “He’s
drunk."
Max raised an eyebrow. “Well go

rouse him out,” he said.

Gilbert Rose Mackinson lay snor-
-ing in a darkened room. A half empty
bottle of Bourbon rested on a side-
table. Max looked at the couch, then
went around pulling up Venetian
blinds with a clatter, admitting sun-
light. He took the young man by
the back of the neck and a shoulder
and violently sat him erect in the
bed.

Mackinson was dazed, speechless,
nerve-racked. Normally, no doubt,
he was a polished young plutocrat of
twenty-four, with every mark of ex-
pensive upbringing, a little priggish,
a little peremptory, highly selfish and
spoiled, at times appealing but too
well insulated within his own ego to
have any real understanding of other
people. He sat up in bed, and his
slender, sensitive hands trembled as
he tried vainly to tap a cigarette on
one exquisitely manicured thumbnail.

Gilbert Mackinson’s parents had
died during his adolescence, and the
family holdings were all tied up in
a trust. There were other connec-
tions in the clan, but this was the
sole heir in direct line. At present
his fortune was reputed to be com-
paratively small, but on reaching
thirty this young man would take
over control, for better or for worse,
of that empire of Steel which had
influenced the course of destiny of a
dozen American states. Even now a
hostile Senatorial committee in Wash-
ington was conducting an inquiry be-
hind closed doors into the devious
roots and branches of the corporate
Mackinson power. Its vast armament
and munitions trade had made it an
influence in the balance of world
peace—sinister or benign, as you in-
clined to believe. It was a delicate,
a crucial moment. No one could be
sure what lay behind the murder of
a Mackinson.

Before he would answer a question,
Mackinson demanded a drink. He
needed it. “They can all tell you the
story,” he said sullenly to Max. “I
haven’t the least idea how it came to
happen. Perhaps my wife heard a
sound, investigated, and surprised a
burglar. Maybe a kidnaper. We
heard somebody hurry off.”

“So they’ve told me,” said Max.
“Were you drunk at the time, Mack-
inson?”

“Drunk? Certainly not!”

“Sure about it?”

Mackinson snarled, rather ineffec-
tually, “Ask Mrs. Clapper.”

Mrs. Clapper said grimly, “Mr.
Mackinson had been to town earlier
and had evidently taken a few
drinks.”

Max said, “Come on downstairs,
Mackinson. I want you along. I’m
going to have a look at the remains.”

This was one department of Max’s
work in which I utterly failed to
share his quiet, dispassionate and
quite zealous interest. The body lay
on the library lounge, covered by a
sheet. The coroner had called, made
the merely cursory examination the
case required, and ordered the dead
girl removed here.

Mrs. Mackinson had been nineteen,
a beauty of soft silken brown and
pastel tints of pink and rose. She
was of middle stature, delicate of
structure yet gracefully mature of
figure, fine of feature and of hands
and feet. But it is impossible to
describe a beauty that is gone. I had
seen her picture in the papers, and
I knew. The sight here was horrible
and heart-wringing, if the two terms
can be coupled.

Max said casually, “Mrs. Mackin-
son had a sister, hadn’t she?”

Sheriff Loman looked nonplussed,
but both Mackinson and Mrs. Clap-
per looked as if taken unawares, as
if taking stock before replying. Mac-
kinson said, “Why, yes. She did. In
Baltimore.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Wrong?” Mackinson moistened
dry lips.

“I didn't come here, you know,
without advance information from
Washington. Your family is not ob-
scure exactly. You can save time by
being frank with me."

Mackinson essayed a jaunty shrug,
but spoke reluctantly. *Noreen Davies
is a twin sister to my wife. She's
a mental case under medical care.
She developed symptoms of schizo-
phrenia at seventeen and became sub-

THE

JUMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 13)

ject to recurrent attacks of very erra-
tic behavior. After my marriage we
found it necessary to place her in the
Walker Neurological Institute for ob-
servation and treatment."

*Have you notified the hospital of
this?"

“Not yet."

Max hesitated. “Were there any
similar symptoms in her sister?"

“None whatever. It’s not con-
genital, you know. The girls were
of a local family. I’ve known them
both on and off, during my stays
here, for a number of years. Noreen's
condition was diagnosed as resulting
from some severe psychic which we've
never determined. When she's ra-
tional and might help, she won't talk
to anybody about it."

I saw Mrs. Clapper's eyes narrow
involuntarily with emotion.

Max pondered a moment, his
thoughts unreadable, then went to
the library desk and busied himself
swiftly writing. He addressed two
envelopes. In one he put a few papers,
in the other the loose wad of bills
from Loveland’s court. He took me
outside to the hall, handed me the
sealed envelopes and gave me instruc-
tions for their disposal. The money,
directed, as he had promised, to the
Culver County Hospital, was to be
mailed from the postoffice in Glen
Laurel, a town twelve miles west.
There was an airport just outside
Glen Laurel, and I was to hire a
plane and pilot, and hand the pilot
the second envelope with instructions
to deliver it as quickly as possible
at the Identification Unit, Division of
Investigation in Washington. I asked
him why, what was up?

“Its a random and irrelevant bit
of business, but I want it rushed
through," Max said noncommittally.
“I doubt we'll be here long."

*You do? Does it click already?"

*Fairly well. But I'm not through
yet. It’s fourth rate mystery, but
. .. well, I’m glad I'm here. Now
hurry along."

HURRIED. I was not so rash as

to sally forth in the Dusenberg, but
instead borrowed a Ford station
wagon, thus avoiding likelihood of
arrest on the way. I completed my
mission at the expense of some cash
but little trouble, saw a fast plane
go winging off to Washington, and
was back at Cedar Hill inside an
hour.

I found Max, in company of Sheriff
Loman, walking about outside the
house, studying the grounds. The
estate was typical of a certain type
of luxurious American country home,
with garages, stables, cottages for the
help. A sister and some small
nephews of Mrs. Clapper occupied
one of the cottages out of sight of
the main house; Mrs. Clapper lived
with them whenever the big house
was vacated and closed.

Max was restive, preoccupied. He
had been busy during my absence,
but to no result of consequence, I
gathered. He had gone all through
the patient routine of taking finger-
prints, both from inanimate surfaces
and from living fingers, comparing
and analyzing them under the magni-
fying glass, and learning nothing
that wasn’t obvious already. There
were no mysterious, unclassifiable
prints to betray a prowling killer.
Max was skilled at this kind of work,
as all special agents must be; he had
along with us the standard equip-
ment: glass, flashlight camera, divers
dusting powders, black, white, silver
for metals, dragon’s blood for neutral
surfaces.

“How about marks on the body?”
I asked. “What do they suggest?”

Max led us back into the house
by way of the gruesome sitting-room.
“There were marks suggesting
strangulation,” he said. “Death must
have occurred when the victim and
the killer toppled over, and the vic-
tim struck the fire guard rail with

terrific force, enough to break the
neck and kill her instantly. The vio-
lence suggests a man, and a consider-
able amount of passion. Curiously,
aside from the scalp wound, the skin
is nowhere broken, even on the throat
where the killer took a powerful
throttling grip. What. would that sug-
gest to you?”

“Gloves!” I said promptly. “That
would also account for the absence
of fingerprints.”

“It would suggest a professional
burglar surprised in the act," Max
allowed. “We know there was an in-
truder, because of the car that fled.”

Sheriff Loman said soberly, “I’ve
had my men checking up about that
car. They've phoned in, and they
can't find word or trace of it."

“Find that car," I said, “and you'll
close your case."

Max smiled a little grimly.
*Maybe! But don't forget that the
scream everybody heard came after
the flight of the car. The car didn't
carry away the killer. He escaped
on foot. Or else he's still here."

Neither the sheriff nor I had any
comment on that. It suggested too
ghastly a conclusion. Max entered
the sitting-room and after a brief
sürvey around, got down on hands
and knees and examined the floor, the
rug, everything in the neighborhood
of the fireplace all over again.

I made guarded inquiry of the
sheriff about John Skyras. Loman
snorted and opined that we'd get no
help from him, if that's what was
on my mind. If the man had any
information, he'd figure on a way
to profit by it. Discounting the natu-
ral prejudice of a hill man for an
outlander—Skyras was only six years
in the county—the sheriff made out
a pretty bad case. He was a Greek,
it was believed. His past was un-
known. He had come quietly enough
into the neighborhood, opening a
small restaurant in Gentry. But he
had expanded into bootlegging and
gambling during prohibition, and
thence into local polities. His unscru-
pulousness and cunning combined
with a free use of ready money and
subtle intimidation, had made him
boss of Gentry and master of most
of the intrigue and shadowy conni-
vance in the county.

Max left off his examination, dust-
ing his hands. He said in deep pre-
occupation, “I’d give a great deal to
know the nature of the psychic shock
that unsettled Noreen Davies' mind.
It must have been severe. It’s very
unusual for one twin to go into a
major collapse without the other.
That is, if they are identical twins.
It's an odd case."

*What do you mean, identical?" I
asked.

“Well there are two kinds of twins.
The fraternal type— all boy and girl
twins are fraternal. They are simply
two people who happened to be born
at the same time. Identical twins are
of the same sex, alike in every de-
tail They result from a not very
clearly understood accident whereby
the single individual planned by
nature divides itself into two, very
early in its existence. The likeness
between the two, physical and emo-
tional, is often pretty uncanny. If
one developes a tumor, the other will
have one also, almost invariably. If
one twin lands in prison, it's a safe
bet the other will presently land there
too. They're really not individuals,
they're each one-half of a weird
human entity."

*So what?" I inquired.

“I’m merely wondering. I once
read of a case of schizophrenia ad-
mitted to the Boston Psychopathic
Hospital. When the doctors learned
the patient was a twin, they made
inquiries—and found that the pa-
tient’s twin sister was in another hos-
pital for the same condition. It’s an
odd angle, that’s all. Odd that this
shock affected only one.”

(Please turn to page 52)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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Pores are naturally smaller in some skins than in
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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935 51

c. . Then make
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A treat to your taste — and
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THE CLUE OF THE
JUMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 50)

A new and different angle struck
Max, and he ordered us upstairs. He
wanted our help in a thorough search
of the dead woman’s personal effects
in her room. The house was quiet;
no one was in sight as we went up the
broad stairs.

Max, who was leading the way,
stopped suddenly near the top with
a warning gesture. I peered over his
shoulder—and beheld Mrs. Clapper
inside the dead woman’s bedroom,
swiftly and intently gathering into
her apron a variety of articles; pieces
of apparel, a miniature portrait, a
small book, various feminine gad-
gets and vanities.

Max ran up the rest of the stairs
and entered the room, saying softly,
“I requested that nothing be dis-
turbed, Mrs. Clapper.”

This formidable woman was not to
be so easily routed; she stood firm,
gazing at us with sudden hatred.
“These thing by rights are mine. Mr.
Bradley. Aileen Davies was more to
me than mistress, she was a friend
since she was a little girl. She told
me these things were mine.”

“T don’t doubt you for a second,
but this haste is unseemly, Mrs. Clap-
per. I must ask you to put those
things on the bed.”

Mrs. Clapper stood stonily by while
Max delved among the collection on
the bed. He passed over everything
else to examine a small leather bound
volume shut fast by a small golden
hasp and lock. He took from his
pocket a small gadget much like a
jack-knife except that its blades were
cunning hooks and locksmith’s tools;
it opened the lock promptly. A sheet
of paper fell from the book as Max
opened it, and I picked it up. It was
cheap notepaper on which was pasted
a series of printed words cut from a
newspaper, all forming a strange
communication indeed. r

Warning! Your husband is
coming around, but you are stub-
born. You know what it means.
Unless you withdraw your oppo-
sition, your husband will be told
all about the money you got the
year before your marriage and
a lot about how you came by it,
which will interest him plenty.

He has been told already a few
little things, just for a sample.
You have seen how crazy jealous
he is. He is not likely to believe
that money innocent money. You
are warned. This is the last time.

I looked at Max, and he said,
“Hm!” with his eyebrows arched. I
glanced at Mrs. Clapper, and her eyes
were big with the effort of trying to
see what we were examining. Max
handed her the document, saying,
“Know anything about that?”

“I do,” she said bluntly, after read-
ing the message. “I can at least easily
guess. People have been after this
estate for a long time. There’s coal
here and it’s never been worked. It’d
be cheap and profitable to mine. The
mineral rights are all tied up in the
land deed. Mr. Mackinson was some-
times tempted to sell, but Mrs. Mac-
kinson held out against it.”

“Who sent this warning?”

“That I can’t say.”

Max asked a number of questions
about the young heir, and Mrs. Clap-
per answered, but with the grudging
taciturnity of an old retainer. Yes,
Gilbert Mackinson had been drinking
heavily. He had even been abusive to
his wife in jealous rage. Mrs. Clap-
per declared that to her own knowl-
edge he had no just cause for jealousy,
and that the sinister reference in the
warning must be sheer fabrication.
She knew nothing about any money,
she said.

The Mackinsons, it appeared, had
spent most of their time here since the
marriage. They had little formal so-
cial life. It was young Mackinson’s
habit to tear about the countryside in

his car, frequenting strange places
and consorting with odd folks indeed.
One place was the Hotel Holly in
Gentry.

Sheriff Loman interrupted to add,
*John Skyras owns the Holly and
a pretty fly and sporty lot of men
hang around there. I’ve heard tell
that Mackinson has brought Skyras
and his gang home with him now and
then.”

“Skyras has been here,” admitted
Mrs. Clapper.

“Why,” asked Max, “with his
means, has Mackinson remained in
this neighborhood so long?”

“Because this is the only piece of
ground he owns outright,” Mrs. Clap-
per said. “He hasn’t the means you
think. He's squandered so much
money these past three years that
he’s been hard pressed for cash.”

Max dismissed the housekeeper,
shaking his head. The woman was a
hard one to figure.

Max now set mysteriously to work
bringing out fingerprints on intimate
objects around the room which would
naturally bear marks made by the
occupant of the room. There was a
black perfume flagon. A playing card.
A cold cream jar. He placed beside
these a sheet of paper on which he
had taken prints of the dead woman’s
fingertips. He gave them all pro-
longed scrutiny.

“Tommy, check these for me," he
requested, handing me. the magnify-
ing glass. *You too, Sheriff."

I compared the various prints. The
little I know I've picked up from Max,
but the similarity was evident,
naturally. The dead woman had
handled these things, had lived and
breathed in this room.

“Sheriff, round up Mackinson,"
Max directed. “Mrs. Clapper again
too. Bring them to the library. I
have an experiment to try."

ACKINSON looked a little im-
proved when he walked gingerly
into the library. His eyes were still
bloodshot. Mrs. Clapper was as iron
as ever. Max closed the door, then
went to the desk and took up the tele-
phone. He asked for long distance
and a connection with the Walker
Neurological Institute in Baltimore.
Connected, Max made formal de-
mand for information about Miss
Noreen Davies. He was evidently
questioned as to his right to such in-
formation, and forced to a tone of
peremptory insistence. The conver-
sation then turned monosyllabic.
Finally—‘Why on earth didn’t you
notify the family immediately? You
didn’t want to alarm them? You
hoped to intercept her? Well, I’m
afraid you’re doomed to disappoint-
ment. If she was as rational as you
say, she was not likely to fall right
back into your hands. No, I don’t
feel at liberty to discuss the case
further, but I suggest you send a
representative to Cedar Hill by to-
morrow.”

Max swung around in the chair and
looked at all of us. There was a
frozen, apprehensive silence.

"I have something rather shocking
to announce," he said quietly. “I
don't know to what extent it's news
to you. But that is not the body of
Mrs. Aileen Mackinson under that
sheet. It's Noreen Davies' body."

I promptly suspended all normal
reactions to such a statement. I was
familiar with Max's devious ways,
but this was beyond me. The dead
woman had been identified, both per-
sonally and by fingerprints.

I looked at Gilbert Mackinson. His
jaw was slack. He stared in a trance
at the form on the lounge. I suddenly
realized that the young man had yet
to view the body with full and un-
flinching gaze. He had avoided the
ordeal earlier. But then Mrs. Clap-
per, the stoic, had made positive iden-
tification!

(Please turn to page 54)

DIET PROBLEMS
of THE STARS

Conducted by

DR. HENRY KATZ

ss AM a constant reader of NEW
Movie and always read your
‘Diet Problems of the Stars,’ con-
ducted by Dr. Henry Katz.

“Here is my problem. I am about
twenty or twenty-five pounds over-
weight, and have been on a doctor's diet
for about a year, with no encouraging
results. I have taken such things as
‘saccharin’ in place of sugar, ‘thyroid’
for my glands, cut out sweets, white
bread and starchy foods. As I work as
a hostess in a tea room, this requires
will power, as we see plenty of pastry,
good food, etc.

“T am only five feet, three inches, and
29 years of age.

"Would it be possible for you to write
out a diet for me to follow? Something
within reason, as I must work in the
meantime."

A person can be made to lose weight
simply by adhering rigidly to a proper
diet. Such things as thyroid extract are
of no value, unless controlled by one
who knows how to use it.

A girl of your height and age should
weigh about 124 pounds. Once you have
reached this weight and maintained it
for a while by adhering to your diet,
you will find it easier to stay at that
constant weight.

The cardinal principle of a reducing
diet is that your calorie intake be less
than the number of calories your body
uses in the course of a day, so that your
body is obliged to burn its excess flesh—
fat. This object is attained, as I said
by a diet low in calories—a diet in which
your intake of starchy and fatty foods
is cut as much as possible.

I am including here some low-calorie
diets.

Breakfast
Fresh Peach Omelet Thin Slice Toast
Skimmed Milk

Luncheon
Clear Soup
American Cheese Orange Salad
Bran Roll Milk
Dinner

Tomato Consomme Broiled Fish
String Beans Celery Cole Slaw
Raspberries with Cream and Sugar
Black Coffee

Breakfast
Huckleberries with Sugar, Whole Milk
Cornflakes with Sugar, Skimmed Milk
Bran Muffin Butter Clear Coffee
Dinner
Fruit Cocktail
Roast Chicken Celery Squash Salad
Black Coffee American Cheese

Supper
Clear Soup
Chicken Salad Bran Muffin Cauliflower
Lemon Ice Tea

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

7 THERE MUST BE SOMETHING
No— | NEVER SAW 9. o
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(but the person she cheats is herself )

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THE CLUE OF THE
JUMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 52)

Max walked to the lounge and
stripped the sheet from the body.
“Gilbert Mackinson—is this the body
of your wife?”

Mackinson came near. A horror
gripped him. Mrs. Clapper stood
without expression.

Suddenly Mackinson uttered a
hoarse, “My God!” He knelt beside
the lounge. He looked into the dead
face, fingered the blood spattered silk
of the light dress and jacket.

“This isn’t her!” he cried. “I’ve
never seen this dress before. This
isn’t Aileen. My God, this is Noreen!”

Max’s voice cut like a whiplash.
“Did you kill her, Mackinson?”

Mackinson sprang away. "I did
not! I know nothing about this, I tell
you. You’ve been trying to frame
me since you arrived.” -He whirled on
Mrs. Clapper. “Where’s my wife?
You knew this wasn’t her. What’s
happened to my wife?”

Mrs. Clapper took an instant or so
to decide that denial was useless.

“Your wife has gone away.”

“Where? Who with?”

Anger, the first emotional response
we'd seen, suddenly shook the formid-
able frame. “With no one, you fool!
Don’t you think it would be enough
for any woman to get away from
you? I have no idea where she is by
now. You were so drunk last night
you had no idea what happened. This
was the final blow. She would have
killed you or herself if she stayed
here.”

“You mean she’s disappeared?” he
demanded. “She wanted me to think
her dead?”

“She preferred it. She knew
Noreen must have escaped. We made
up the story of a burglar. The car
that raced away was plainly the car
that brought Noreen here from Bal-
timore. You can thank your wife
that you weren’t arrested immedi-
ately for murder.”

ILBERT MACKINSON’S nerves

failed him. He covered his face with

his hands, swaying on his feet. Max

came to him, jerked the hands away.

“Steady! ut with it now. What
do you remember?”

“My God,” sobbed Mackinson. “I
don’t remember anything! It’s all
mad confusion. I was drunk. I didn’t
think I killed anybody. I don’t know.
I must have been insane.”

Mrs. Clapper said steadily, “I saw
him come rushing out of the sitting-
room like a maniac. When I went in
I found Miss Noreen lying there. I
thought then it was her sister, but
Mrs. Mackinson rushed in right after.
I kept Mr. Mackinson out of the room,
away from her. He was out of his
senses, and I was afraid.”

“Why didn’t you call a physician?”

Mrs. Clapper shrugged. “There was
no use. The girl was dead. I did
what Mrs. Mackinson wished.”

“T see,” Max said gravely. He came
near to Mrs. Clapper, looked her in
the eye, and said, “Don’t you think
it'd be just as well now if you went
and brought Mrs. Mackinson back
here, since this is becoming a process
of law well beyond anyone's control?"

The cold eyes flamed once again
and the lean nostrils flared with de-
fiance and battle. But logic ruled.
Her firm shoulders wilted a little. “I
despaired of her doing this with any
success from the first. But she was
too wild to deny. She's hiding in our
cottage.”

“So I judged when we found you
collecting belongings to bring to her,”
said Max. “Assure her that her feel-
ings will be spared as much as pos-
sible.”

After Mrs. Clapper departed, we
all looked at Mackinson cowering
brokenly in a chair. Eben Loman
said, “Up our way, people that gets
into a thing like this usually finds
themselves lynched. Do I put the
irons on him, Mr. Bradley?”

Max brooded a second, “Wait!” To

the young man he said, “Mackinson,
talk straight now! To whom were you
selling this estate? To Skyras?”

“No. Probably to Interstate Col-
lieries.”

“Has Skyras bid in on it?”

“He didn’t offer enough.”

“But he persisted?”

“He pestered me. I owe him some
money. I lost a hundred and fifty in
a whiskey deal with him. He told me
afterwards it was crooked, and he’s
insinuated threats about it.”

“He’s still trying to get the place

then?”
“Yes. Aileen balked. She refused
to sign. He's kept at me. I don't

know what I'll do."

Max turned to the sheriff. “I saw
some luminal tablets in a bathroom
cabinet upstairs, Sheriff. Take him
up and let him have a good dose of
it. He badly needs either a drink
or a sedative, and he'll want his wits
about him too much today to fool
with liquor.”

Mackinson got up in response to
the sheriff’s command. He shamblea
to the door.

“I must have killed her,” he said
in a creepy and rather memorable
tone of voice. “I can’t remember. I
suppose I did. I was insane. Drunk!
Oh, God . . . Noreen!”

The sheriff half supported him out
of the room.

I said to Max immediately, “I’m
reeling, man! Is that really Noreen
Davies? After the fingerprints you
showed me?"

“I was merely demonstrating why
some of us are detectives and some
not" Max smiled faintly, gravely.
“I had just that moment learned,
Tommy, that the dead girl in the
library was not the same as the one
who lived in the room above. I'd al-
ready told you that twins are un-
cannily identical in feature and detail.
But not even in twins does the fin-
gerprint system fail—if you are an
expert and look closely enough. And
if you're forewarned. I was, and I
looked till I found the minute, almost
invisible discrepancies that told the
story. This pair of prints was re-
markably alike, even for identical
twins."

“You were forewarned,” I pro-
tested. “You had no reason to suspect
a substitution."

“Then apparently I was the only
person around here to note that the
murdered Mrs. Mackinson, so called,
was wearing no wedding ring of any
kind when she died."

I gave up.

We were still awaiting the return
of the others when the door opened
and an unexpected intruder strode
into the library. It was, of all men,
John Skyras, and with him were two
constables. On the swarthy face was
an unpleasant expression of triumph.

“So!” he purred. “You are here;
how nice. I receive the news that a
car is on the Mackinson place like
your car. I come to find out. And how
lucky I am—you are both here!"

"You're too modest, Skyras," said
Max dryly. "It's not all luck, surely.
It’s your remarkable gift of deduc-
tion, I'm certain."

The two officers pounced on us. Max
did not resist, so I perforce submitted.
We were disarmed, held.

Skyras walked close to Max.
“Where is the money?”

“All gone,” said Max, shrugging.
“I got rid of it. Gave it away, in
fact.”

Skyras grunted, and then swung a
lightning, heavy fist into Max’s face.
Max dodged, but not quickly enough.
The blow caught a corner of his jaw,
and Max went down, ending up on the
floor beside the lounge.

He crouched there. I saw the yel-
low lights of murderous rage in his
pupils, But Max smiled.

“You know, the more I see of you,
Skyras, the more pleasure I get out

(Please turn to page 56)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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THE CLUE OF THE
JUMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 54)

of that five hundred dollars."
“I finish your pleasure, by God!"
Skyras drew his revolver. His big
frame shook with fury. Max laughed,
but came to his feet, wary, watchful.
And it was just at that point that
Sheriff Eben Loman entered the room.
The sheriff looked excited, shocked,
but he stopped suddenly, looked at
the newcomers, and anger gathered
swiftly. *Here, here, Skyras! What

do you think you're doing? Put that
gun away."
“You keep away, Sheriff! I make

an arrest of this man."
“You’re making a dumb fool of

yourself! I take jurisdiction here,
and you'll arrest nobody. That man
is a dd

Skyras shouted, "I give not one
good damn who he is! I arrest him!"

The sheriff’s jaw set. He jerked
forth a long barreled revolver from
under an armpit. "You'll put up that
gun, by God, John Skyras!"

Skyras gazed at him, moistened his
lips, and slipped the gun silently into
his pocket again.

“Now!” said the sheriff. He walked
to the lounge and drew back the sheet.
"There's been murder done here. If
you've got anything to say, say it
quick or get out!"

Skyras stared at the gruesome
sight. His eyes protruded. The two
constables looked suddenly panicky.

Max Bradley gave a little start,
and said, “Just a moment, gentle-
men." He went to a bay window that
looked out on the grounds and drive-
way. A car was approaching. We
heard it stop, and the door slam. Max,
with a pleased, eager expression, went
to the library door and waited.

The newcomer was a crisp, matter-
of-fact young man who looked like
a competent young bank examiner or
attorney. He cast a_single non-
committal glance around the room.

“Got something for you, Bradley,”
he told Max. “It’s pretty hot. An
old inactive file, too. I flew up, to
save time.”

“Well have a look," said Max.

"HEY sat down together at the desk,
spreading out a number of docu-
ments brought by the stranger. All
prior matters were suspended. Sky-
ras, puzzled, somberly furious, bided
his time under the watchful, grimly
patient eye of Sheriff Loman.

I felt a tremendous curiosity. I
knew where the stranger had flown
from. This was a man from Wash-
ington.

The issue was still undecided when
Mrs. Clapper returned. With her
was Aileen Davies Mackinson, a pale,
heartsick counterpart of the lifeless
figure on the lounge. She wore a
flowing dress of black crepe without
a single ornament. Her large blue
eyes looked from one to another, and
the only change that came into their
fixed, opaque stare was when they
rested on John Skyras, and then they
gleamed with the fires of hatred.

Mrs. Clapper promptly demanded.
“What’s that man doing here?”

“I’m none too sure myself," Sheriff
Loman said grimly. *But it's up to
Mr. Bradley whether he stays or
goes."

Max looked up quickly. *He stays.
Emphatically he stays."

Aileen Mackinson said suddenly. “I
can’t stand that man in my house!”
Her breath was short with despera-
tion. “I can’t endure him here. Please
send him away!”

Max went quickly to her. “Mrs.
Mackinson, your best interests will
be served if you let me be the judge
of this" ,

“But he's the fundamental cause of
all this tragedy. It's all in conse-
quence of his doings, his cruel and
deliberate plotting.”

“Suppose you tell me about it.”

She struggled for composure. “TIl
tell. Gilbert lost a half million dol-
lars in the past two years, playing

the market and backing reckless ven-
tures. He’s tried to get money from
the trustees, but they won’t give him
any; he can’t touch the estate for
years yet, and he’s deeply in debt.
This man knows it and he has led
Gilbert on. He has tried to ruin him
and he’s never let up trying.”

“This is a lie!" shouted Skyras.

“It’s the truth!” Aileen Mackin-
son retorted passionately. “You’ve
worked for years to get him in your
power. You want this land, to begin
with. You’ve tried to get your clutches
on the millions that will come to him
some day. There is no limit to your
greed.”

“He is a drunken fool, your hus-
band!”

“You’ve helped to make him! You
poisoned his mind. You lied to him
about me. You invented a past for
me until he was insane with jealousy.
Why did he strike down that innocent
girl? He did it because of the lies
you told, lies you made him believe
about me, his wife. You murdered
my sister, John Skyras!”

Mrs. Clapper moved suddenly and
took the distraught girl in her pro-
tecting arms. The older woman’s face
was a picture of vindictive loathing.
“That’s God’s truth! That man gave
Aileen Davies money to provide medi-
cal care for her sister, before this
marriage when the girls were alone
in the world and penniless. She was
young and desperate and she accepted
an older man’s free offering, but she
made the mistake, out of pride, of
keeping it a secret. Now this man
stands prepared to tell about that
money he gave her—and to charge
that it was neither free nor un-
earned! He's threatened that, and
you have the proof, Mr. Bradley!"

“This goes far enough!” raged
Skyras. “I can tell plenty things
here that are truth, by God!”

“There’s no need to!” Mrs. Clapper
cried. “I know all you have to tell.
It’s time for telling, and time your
dirty secrets were taken from you,
John Skyras. Gentlemen, that man
and I alone here know this story.
Gilbert Mackinson broke down and
told me one day in his soul’s torment,
and in some maudlin moment he was
fool enough to tell that man too.
Noreen Davies was in love with Gil-
bert Mackinson. Ever since she was
a little girl and he was the dashing
young beau of the countryside. He
didn't fail to see his opportunity; he
took advantage of her intense affec-
tion when she was little more than a
child and he made her his. I needn't
speak more plainly; Gilbert Mackin-
son's cruel selfishness is too well
known. He did that, and he went
away, and when he came back again
he had lost interest and it was the
sister he went after, without shame
or human feeling. And when that
sister kept him at a proper distance
he persisted until he finally married
her. And that's the story and the
shame in this house!"

"Oh!" said Aileen Mackinson in
anguish. “Oh, no! My Noreen...
not my Noreen!”

“You didn’t know, child, and no
one dared tell you, least of all poor
Noreen. She was a child in love, and
suddenly she lost her lover. She was
a twin who had grown up with her
sister—and, suddenly she lost her
sister too. She knew she'd never have
either one again as long as she lived.
She couldn't stand it, and her poor
broken heart found a way of escape.
Her mind went back to childhood
mere shed been happy, and it stayed

ere.

My blood ran cold with the horror
of the thing, the repellent ugliness
of the human motives suddenly re-
vealed.

In the shocked stillness
Loman cleared his throat. “I have
something to tell you. I was side-

(Please turn to page 58)

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TH
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E CLUE OF THE
UMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 56)

tracked.” He hesitated. “I doubt
you'll have more worry from Gilbert
Mackinson.”

Max Bradley gave a start of dis-
may. “Good God! I should have
known.”

“He went to the bathroom for the
medicine you told him to take,” said
the sheriff. “He was only there a
minute. I was waiting for him when
I heard him fall. He was. making
choking sounds in his throat. I ran
in and grabbed him, and he passed
away right there in my hands in con-
vulsions. There’s a lot of white froth
in his mouth.”

“Cyanide!” Max breathed. Even
he was a little stunned. “He was
well prepared for the moment.”

The others were speechless. But I
could see in every eye, except that of
Aileen Mackinson, whose face was
hidden on Mrs. Clapper’s shoulder,
the quick hot light of speculation.
This was news that would flash
around the world. Aileen Mackinson
was still as a statue, until all at once
she gave a little moan and her knees
buckled beneath her.

It was Max who caught her, and
Max who commandeered one of the
constables to carry the girl upstairs
where Mrs. Clapper could minister to
her.

Nothing closes a knotty case so
irrevocably as death. I was unpre-
pared therefore for Max Bradley's
sudden air of renewed force, of taking
up paramount matters not yet com-

‘pleted. “This isn't the most suitable

place for the business next in hand,
gentlemen," he said. “We’ll all step
out of this room."

“I take no step!" asserted Skyras.
*I demand to know, Sheriff? Who
is this crook and why do you pro-

tect him?"

“Crook?” | Eben Loman gave a
kind of humorless guffaw. “Me pro-
tect him?"

“I’m a special agent, Department of
Justice, Skyras," Max explained in
business-like fashion. “As such, I'm
detaining you for a few questions.
We'll discuss your own grievance
later—if you wish to. Meantime
you'll hand that gun over into the
sheriff’s custody. Now, will you come
along with us quietly, or would you
rather be placed under Federal ar-
rest?"

KYRAS looked at him an instant,

growled and grudgingly surren-
dered the gun, but he came along
quietly, inimically, biding his time.

In the sitting-room Max proceeded
to dispose of us variously about the
room according to some plan obscure
to all of us. It left us all facing the
fireplace before which the girl had
died, perched on chairs, tables. Flank-
ing the empty fireplace on one hand
was a massive bookcase, on the other
a handsome, hand carved antique wal-
nut lowboy. Max knelt and glanced
briefly beneath the lowboy. There
was a little space there; rudimentary
legs raised the thing from the floor
about one inch.

“I want all of you to.be very still,”
he directed us. “Beneath this piece
of furniture, oddly enough, an animal
has taken refuge. I knew it was
there; I want you to see it. If we're
quiet, I imagine it will appear."

It sounded quite daffy to me, but
Max was grave and cool as a skillful
impresario. I looked at the lowboy,
we all looked at the lowboy.

Max drifted from talk of native
edibles to native habits. Gambling,
for example. He described a kind of
primitive steeplechase in which na-
tives mark a circle in the hard earth
with a pointed stick, assemble a num-
ber of individually marked Mexican
jumping beans in the center, and bet
which will make its way outside the
circle first.

And I remembered, too, the white
paper in Loveland's desk with the
penciled circle—and the small brown

things I had taken to be nuts.

Max's voice suddenly changed.
"Pinon nuts and jumping beans are
curiosities in this part of the coun-
try," he said in a tone, hard, full
of dramatic significance. “Were you
ever in the Southwest, Skyras?"

Skyras, his eyes narrowed to bale-
ful slits, shook his head.

Max said, “I’ll put it this way. How
long have you been away from the
Southwest—Juan Rosario Escanza?"

Skyras exploded; his face was dark
as dead blood is dark, and his heavy
neck swelled in his collar. “What does
this mean? What are you getting
at? I'm well known in this neighbor-
hood for years. Are you trying to
frame me for something?"

Max purred, “You forget that cul-
tivated accent, Escanza. It was a
good one while it lasted, but Juan
Escanza was an educated man speak-
ing fluent English. Listen to me care-

fully. The paper I made you sign
this morning, remember? It went
directly to Washington. It carried

your fingerprints, along with the
others. You had read it, handled it.
They brought out the prints in Wash-
ington and searched the cards, and
they found a complete history for one
Juan Rosario Escanza, politician,
gambler, white slaver, gunman and
fugitive, wanted by tne state of New
Mexico on several counts, but chiefly
for murder. The history was complete
up to six years ago. And the prints
matched one set of prints on that
paper you signed. Your course is
run, Escanza, and you are under ar-
rest for disposal by the New Mexico
authorities.

“It is not true," grated the big man
between set teeth. "I shall fight ex-
tradition."

“Then I shall see that the authori-
ties right here take action. Murder
is no better liked in this state, Es-
canza."

* Murder?"

“Murder!” repeated Max, like~a
prosecutor impaling his victim on the
stand. “You came here stealthily last
night to see Gilbert Mackinson and
tighten the screws, didn't you? You
didn't want to run into Mrs. Mackin-
son, but you found yourself suddenly
face to face with her regardless. So
you thought! And when you threat-
ened her—threatened Noreen Davies
—and she didn't understand and
screamed in fear and tried to defend
herself, you threw yourself on her,
didn't you? And killed her, trying to
silence her!"

“T was not here, damn you!”

“I shall prove you were here. You
left something behind you when you
struggled with your victim. It damns
you for the killer, Escanza, for you're
the only man in this country who
would carry such a trademark to
leave behind." Max whirled about.
“Look for yourself. Under the low-
boy. What do you see that I saw—
alive, coming out toward the light
as all living things do, to crucify
you!"

We looked. Max had timed it well.
It was eerie. On the floor, just emerg-
ing from beneath the lowboy, was an
absurd, sightless, feeble, tiny thing—
a dun-colored Mexican jumping bean.
It moved by little jerks, tumbling oc-
casionally, pausing for an instant,
making another convulsive movement
as the worm-like larva within the
shell pursued its own inscrutable des-
tiny, obeying its one impulse—to trav-
el toward the light.

And as it tumbled, we could see the
small bright red marking applied to
it to distinguish it from any number
of others.

There came a shrill, frenzied curse
in Spanish, and a whirlwind of deadly
movement. Escanza, or Skyras,
vaulted a table. One of the constables
swung around the end to cut off his
path to the French doors. The man
reached back between his shoulder

(Please turn to page 60)

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THE CLUE
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JUMPING BEAN

(Continued from page 58)

blades, inside his coat. A knife
flashed, and the officer wilted even
as he clutched at the big man. Skyras
broke from the falling constable; his
arm flailed, and the knife whizzed
across the room. Max ducked just in
time, and the heavy blade struck the
stone fireplace with a sharp ring of
metal,

And a shot sounded, a shock to
the eardrums—and the man whose
real name was Escanza faltered as
he reached the French doors, and fell
to the floor on the threshold of es-
cape, to groan and curse in pain and
partial paralysis from a bullet in the

hip.

Barclay, the matter-of-fact man
from Washington, sighed and slid his
warm automatic home again in its
holster. M

I satisfied my intense and jittery
curiosity as soon as the confusion
permitted. I said to Max, “What in
God's name made you so certain Sky-
ras—Escanza, if you'd rather—killed
the girl? A jumping bean is no evi-
dence; anyone might have dropped it
there."

*[ had exact information about
that,” said Max, smiling wryly. “I
put it under the lowboy myself. You
were talking to the sheriff at the
moment.”

I was shocked. “You framed him?”

Max laughed. “How could I frame
him? You say yourself that a mere
jumping bean is no evidence! I let
him frame himself; there isn't really
a shred of convicting evidence against
the man. There were these things:
that he was a crook, for the first. Our
arrest demonstrated that. That he was
a fraudulent Greek, for another. I'm
not unacquainted with the rudiments
of ethnology; I know breeds, and
I can spot a touch of Indian when I
see it. Any crook or any fraud any-
where encountered should be checked
up on principle; that's why they have
four and a half million sets of finger-
prints on file in Washington. I got
those prints and I sent them in. I
palmed one of the jumping beans to
make certain if it actually were a
bean and if it jumped, all in order to
back up my suspicion that Skyras
was from the border country." |

*But none of these things point to
the murder."

“Certain things later did. I be-
came aware that Mackinson hadn't
done it. Did you notice his fingernails,
long and strong and pointed? They'd
have left marks, unfailingly. Most
hands would. Skyras had no nails to
speak of. He came often to the house.
He was the only one to have reason
for violence. He was making threats.
He was desperate with greed. He
was hounding this household. I
reasoned that he did it, but couldn’t
in a million years prove it, and so I
let him do it himself. He helped no
end by turning up of his own accord.
He was probably burning to know
what was going on up here today—
the Dusenberg gave him his chance
to find out. But do you know what I
most feared?”

I said dryly, “I’m afraid I fail to
see any trace of timidity in all this!”

“Well, when I planted the jumping
bean, and planned to invite Skyras
here for a showdown, I was in dread
that he might bring Loveland along.
And that the jumping bean would in-
criminate the wrong man."

*What will happen to Skyras—or
Escanza?"

“He'll die in New Mexico. It's
better so. This is better closed here
as quickly as possible."

I shuddered a little. It was not
a pleasant business. "How about n
drink?" I said.

Max beamed, slapped my shoulder.
“Now that, my boy,” he congratulated
me, “is an original contribution to
the case, and the brightest thought
you’ve had all day!”

I was satisfied.

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Inside, there was an impression of
clutter and disorder; wardrobe trunks
standing half open beside the long
curtained windows, papers and mag-
azines strewn about. A glimpse of a
living-room to the right, and the open
doorway of an adjoining bedroom to
the left. But, as on a trickily lighted
stage, the attention was flung arrow-
like to the tumbled bed where, under
an amber-shaded lamp, Lita Bernard
lay, motionless, her lovely body
sprawled half-way out of tumbled
golden blankets, her arms outflung
as if with thick purplish bruises.

Her flimsy, silk nightrobe was torn
away from one exquisite shoulder
and the beautiful auburn hair was
a black framework for her deathly
white face, From the closed bath-
room door on the other side of the
room came again the roaring beat of
fists pounding on woodwork, and a
woman's harsh, agonized voice:

*Help! Help! Let me out!"

Tubby was already there, shaking
the knob.

“Who is it? Open up!"

The answering voice was clogged
with a heavy foreign accent.

*[ am Heloise, Madame's maid. I
am lock’ in. Let me out! Vite!
Vite!”

Tubby squinted down at the lock.
The keyhole was vacant.

“Just a minute,” he said tersely,
“we'll get a key." He picked up the

hone from the small table beside the
ed. "Night clerk? There's trouble
in 280. Get the manager and house
dick up here. And send a passkey.
Make it snappy."

Jenny's hand stopped him as he
was about to hang up.

“No one should leave the hotel
without being checked up on," she
whispered swiftly.

"Right." He quickly relayed the
suggestion, then jiggled the hook for
the operator. “Operator? Get me
the Evening Gazette office, and step
on it, sister."

OCTOR LYONS was bending over

the unconscious actress, his plump
manicured fingers feeling for a pulse.
Jenny watched him anxiously, her
hands pressed tightly together. No
one who had ever met Lita Bernard
could have failed to come under the
spell of her vivid, glamorous person-
ality. Temperamental though she
was, her generosity was a byword in
the profession. Her charm came over
the footlights like a wave of deli-
cious perfume. And even her occa-
sional outbursts of temper were only
April storm interludes in the June
warmth of her disposition. A mur-
derous assault upon such a woman
was more than news, it would be a
publicly resented outrage.

Doctor Lyons straightened up,
shaking his head.

“Not dead, but a nasty shock,” he
said in a low, important tone. Se-
cretly he was delighted with this
opportunity of impressing the golden-
haired Jenny Jennings. He snapped
open his bag, and took from it a
box of small glass ampules of amyl
nitrate.

Tubby finished speaking short,
headline sentences to the City Desk,
then looked across the bed at the
slender figure in white chiffon.

“Why don’t you run along, Jen?
This may turn out to be pretty
messy."

The girl lifted her head, and he saw
that her brows were contracted
sharply.

“Don’t be mid-Victorian, Tubby.”

She went quickly into the parlor
at her right, snapped on the lights,
and gave close scrutiny to the
elaborately furnished room. She
found that the hall door was locked
on the inside. No one had gone out
that way. She went as silently and
purposefully into the bedroom open-
ing off the one where Lita Bernard

(Please turn to page 62)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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(Continued from page 60)

lay. It obviously belonged to Heloise,
the maid. The hall door there was
locked in the same manner.

She stepped out into the short cor-
ridor that lay at right angles to the
main hallway, and stood looking in-
tently down the long buff colored pas-
sage. Then she returned to the bed-
room, where Doctor Lyons was hold-
ing a broken ampule of restorative
under the actress's nostrils. Lita Ber-
nard did not stir, nor respond in any
way. The house physician blinked
with surprise.

The cruel bruises on the throat
were deepening into ugly circles.
Particularly large and blunt fingers
must have done the merciless throt-
tling.

In the bathroom, Heloise was sob-
bing jerkily:

"Let me out!
dame!"

"Keep your shirt on, sister," ad-
vised Tubby through the door, “the
doctor is here, and Madame is okay."

Let me go to Ma-

HE manager of the Baumont, nor-
mally suave and genial, arrived a
bit disheveled, and more than a bit
disturbed. Ballen, the house detec-
tive, grim and black-eyed, was with

im.

* You'll go easy on this, won't you?”
the manager begged agitatedly, recog-
nizing Tubman Jones. The house dick
went past the reporter with a curt
nod, snapped the passkey efficiently in
the lock, and opened the bathroom
door.

A tall, gaunt, sallow faced woman
stumbled forward, straggling black
hair pasted sweatily down on her
thin triangular face. She was dressed
in a black uniform, with white bands
at collar and cuffs.

“Oh, Madame... Madame... ”

She stood swaying for an instant,
as if fighting for breath. Then her
knees seemed to buckle under her,
and she sank down beside the bed,
groping for Lita Bernard’s limp hand.

“Ah, that beast ... that brute...”
she moaned, “did he keel her?”

Ballen leaned over her, pushing his
black derby farther back from his
close-cropped hair.

“Who was it?
huh?"

She nodded her head, as if in a
daze.

“He poosh me into bat'room . . . I
fall. And when I get up... Madame
is screaming, and the door ees lock'!"

*Did yuh know him? Huh?"

She stared at his grim eyes, the
muscles of her throat twitching spas-

Did yuh see him,

modically.

“Eef I tell you," she managed
hoarsely, *'e weel say I lie. Oh, 'e
is elevaire . . . 'e is a Judas! I weel

not speak 'is name . . . that ees for
Madame to do!"

She suddenly twisted about, and
took the pale. ravaged face of the
actress between her long white hands.

“Madame,” she whispered brokenly,
“speak, I eemplore you! Do not let
such a guilty one go unpunish' . . .
Madame, speak to Heloise... "

Jenny felt a queer cold thrill run
down her spine. She heard Doctor
Lyons’ sharp intake of breath, saw
the startled faces of the manager and
the house detective, caught the slight
scratching of Tubby's pencil moving
swiftly over a folded piece of paper.
For the unconscious woman was mov-
ing, slowly, languidly. Her long,
beautiful fingers uncurled, and the
eyelids lifted, revealing starry, vio-
let gray orbs, fascinatingly lovely,
even now. The pupils were so dis-
tended as to make them appear
glazed, centerless. The rest of her
face was whitely immobile. Only in
the wide-open eyes did there seem
to be life and thought.

The doctor made a movement for-
ward. But the Frenchwoman's thin
hands went toward him peremptorily
in a quick, stabbing gesture. She
was leaning over the actress, so that
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light was like a suspended mask.

“Madame . . . eet ees I, Heloise!
Tell them . . . tell them who did thees
theeng to you . . . Madame, I eem-
plore you...”

For an instant there was no sound
in the room except the breathing of
the intent group. The actress’s eyes
went slowly from face to face with-
out recognition, and one hand came
up to touch tremblingly the blotted
flesh of her throat.

Teele Live «16 HOMECONE) v8. 7 she
whispered, and half raised herself
from the pillow.

“Oui, Madame . . . who?”

Lita Bernard's glazed eyes came
back slowly to the Frenchwoman's
haggard face, so close to hers.

"It was... Raoul," she said faint-
ly, and fell back in a swoon.

Doctor Lyons nervously broke open

another ampule. The sharpness of its
odor filled the room. But under the
actress’s nostrils it was impotent and
without efficacy.

The group stirred. The manager
looked at the house detective with
harassed eyes.

“His room is on this floor, next to
Doctor Lyons. You'll have to take
him in custody, of course, but for
God's sake . . ." his voice shook, “do
it as quietly as possible. This is
terrible, terrible."

The Frenchwoman had dropped to
her knees again, and was chafing the
actress’s unresponsive hands.

“They quarrel today ... she
said brokenly, “she say ’e must leave
her company. ’E say ... ‘Not while

live ...or you!’ Then ’e rush out,
and Madame faint. I go to the Doc-
taire for ’elp . 7”

Doctor Lyons nodded, one eye on
Tubby’s swiftly moving pencil. He
was pleasantly visualizing his name
in the resulting headlines.

“Yes, yes, that is true,” he agreed

”

breathily.

Ballen grunted, and went heavy-
footed down the hallway.

Jenny was still staring down at
the beautiful, immobile face on the
pillow. Her lips were tightly com-
pressed.

"Ill have a policeman on guard
outside the suite,” the manager went
on, “and of course you'll get a
nurse...”

The black garbed French woman
swayed to her feet. “That ees not
necessaire, Messieurs. I ’ave taken
care of Madame for many years...
the good Doctaire can tell me what
todo..."

Dr. Lyons shook his head. His eye-
glasses glistened.

*No, no, we must have a trained
nurse for your mistress. You're in
no condition to help her, my good
woman...” (Tubby looked across
at Jenny with a half grin.) “You go
into your room and lie down. I'll call
you if you are needed."

SHE started to protest volubly, her
voice increasing in shrillness. The
manager silenced her peremptorily,
thinking of ears listening at open
doors along the corridor.

*You'l do as you're told. Now
we must leave Doctor Lyons with his
patient...”

“I think I heard a vest button pop
on that last speech," Tubby said
under his breath as he and Jenny
went quickly back along the carpeted
hallway to the doctor's office where
they had left their wraps.

She looked up at him with a curi-
ous, far-away expression in her eyes.
And in the luxurious paneled room she
suddenly stopped, staring sightlessly
at the gold-threaded lamé jacket he
was holding up for her.

“Tubby,” she said slowly, “if Lita
Bernard should die tonight what
would happen to Raoul Demarest?”

He shrugged.

“He’d get the chair, unless some
slick lawyer could induce the jury to
call it manslaughter. But what makes
you think she might die? She doesn’t
seem to be in any particular dan-
geb...

Jenny opened her lips to reply.
But at that instant there was a small

(Please turn to page 64)

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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TIGER WOMAN

(Continued from page 62)

commotion in the hall outside. Voices
were raised, then sharply lowered.
And, through the open door, Ballen
and another detective propelled a
blond, angry young man in modish
overcoat and hat, one who had evi-
dently been so taken by surprise that
his mental processes had had no time
to form into physical resistance.

“In here," the house dick was say-
ing out of the corner of his mouth,
*and don't shout unless you want me
to paste you one."

He had slammed the door shut be-
fore he saw the two young people
who had been screened behind it.

*Don't mind us," Jenny spoke up
sweetly, *we just came back to get
our things.” She was making femi-
nine dabs at her nose with a tiny puff
from a powder compact. But her
eyes were intent on the furious, be-
wildered face of the young man. “I
see you found Mr. Demarest. Was
he going or coming?"

“Caught him sneaking in," Ballen
replied triumphantly.

The actor flung a rabid oath at
him.

“I was not ‘sneaking’ in! I walked
up the one flight of stairs from the
lobby, and you crazy fools pounced
on me. Do you know who I am?
Raoul Demarest, a guest in this ho-
wk Traas

The two detectives exchanged bored
glances.

“Oh, sure, sure. You don’t know a
thing, you gotta perfect alibi, you
was just walking through the park
. .. at two A. M."

The blond actor stared at them,
moistening dry lips. “Alibi for what?
As for walking . . . yes, I was. Is
there any law against that?"

Ballen interrupted curtly.

“Pll do the talking around here.
You and Miss Bernard had a row
this afternoon, didn't yuh? Huh?"

“T won't tell you. It's none of your
damned business."

“Take it easy, buddy, it’s plenty of
our business. You threatened her,
didn't you? Huh?”

AOUL DEMAREST started to

reply. Then he stopped, his eyes
narrowing to hard blue slits. He
breathed deeply, his fingers gripping
the table edge so that the knuckles
showed in sharp white ridges.

“T see," he said slowly. “You mean
Miss Bernard wants to have me ar-
rested for that.” He was obviously
fighting for self-control. His voice
had lost its furious belligerence. When
he spoke again, it was with the rich,
persuasive tones of the successful
actor once more.

“Gentlemen, I suggest that you
wait until morning to make the ar-
rest. You surely know how tempera-
mental Miss Bernard is . . . this is
an impulse, one which she will regret.
Believe me, I am thinking of her,
rather than of myself. The attend-
ant publicity would not be to her
advantage...”

Ballen snorted. The other detee-
tive looked slightly amused.

“Not good enough, buddy. The pub-
licity is already in the papers, if I
know reporters.” He glanced at Tub-
by. “Yuh can’t choke a lady half
t death and get away with it, not
in this hotel...”

Raoul Demarest started, as if a
blow had been aimed at his face.
“Choke her? J choke Lita? My God,

man, you’re crazy! I worship the
very ground she walks on. I was
angry, yes. But choke her... ”
He suddenly reeled, and put one hand
on his forehead. A gesture which
might have been one of genuine emo-
tion, or of melodrama. “Are you
telling me that someone . . . that Lita
... has been hurt?" He started for
the doorway. “Let me go to her!
Let me go to her, I say!"

The detectives flung themselves
upon him. There was a rough and
tumble scrimmage, strangely silent
for all its violence, Jenny pressed

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her hands over her eyes as there
came a sickening crack on the unpro-
tected blond head.

The actor slumped down between
the two men, and they looked at each
other, breathing heavily.

“These actor birds can’t take it,”
Ballen grunted. “Now weve gotta
have a stretcher up here, and the
manager’ll give me hell.”

“Why not put him in his own
room,” suggested Tubby, “under
guard?”

Ballen nodded.

“Sure; why not. The place is going
to be lousy with cops... ”

Between them, they got the uncon-
scious actor out into the hall and into
his own room, which the house detec-
tive unlocked with a passkey.

Tubby retrieved his hat and coat
from the davenport, and looked at
Jenny, who was standing in the same
position by the table, her hands
pressed tightly over her eyes.

“Finish your drink, pal,” he said
gently, “and I’ll put you in a cab.
I told you these things weren’t in
your line. I gotta get down to the
office with this story.”

She put her hands down, and he
saw that there were hectic patches
of red in her cheeks. Her eyes were
startlingly blue. “Tubby,” she said
abruptly, “you like me a lot, don’t
you?”

His mouth fell open. A painful
flush rose to the roots of his hair.

“You know I do,” he answered
shortly. “What is this, a game of
truth?”

“Because,” she went on, ignoring
the question, “I’m going to ask you
to give up the scoop on this story to
help me find out the truth that lies
behind it . . . something that’s a lot
bigger and more important."

He stared at her, completely non-
plussed.

*You mean why he choked her?
That'll all come out later, Jen...”
She shook her head vehemently.

“I think I know what they quar-
reled about, and, if I'm right, it must
never get into print. Ilike Lita Ber-
nard, Tubby; I know some of the
grand things she has done for people
who needed help. I like Raoul Dem-
arest, too. In spite of his dime novel
name, he's a real person. Don't make
me explain now... just do what I
ask you. Get Doctor Lyons out of
her room so that I can slip in there
before the nurse comes. Fifteen
should be enough . . . and I honestly
think it's a matter of life or death.
Will you, Tubby ... for me?”

FOR one long instant, his mouth re-
mained unromantically ajar as he
stared down into her tense, uplifted
face. Then his teeth came together
in a click of decision.

“Okay, pal; you being your father’s
daughter, there’s something more
than vacuum under the hair. Do I
get the doc out silently, or with sound
effects?”

“With just enough noise to be
heard distinctly,” she replied, dim-
pling.

Then suddenly she lifted herself on
tiptoe, and kissed the surprised young
man squarely on the mouth.

“You’re a darling!”

The bulky young reporter went
down the carpeted corridor toward
280 as if his overly large shoes were
heeled with Mercury’s wings.

Five minutes later, the dapper,
pink-faced physician and the stocky
young man came hurrying back to-
ward the office. Tubby had invented
a mythical patient, one with a com-
bination of symptoms probably un-
known to materia medica.

Doctor Lyons, his mind in a whirl
from so many unexpected happen-
ings in one night, did not hear the
door of his office open as he went by,
nor did he see the slim figure in
white that slipped out into the cor-
ridor as he turned into his own room.

The big policeman lounging com-
fortably in a deep upholstered chair
outside 280 saluted the fair-haired
girl affably. He had no way of know-
ing that the white apron was of the

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

TIGER WOMAN

kind doctors wear, or that the seem-
ing cap was a hastily folded towel.
He did not even question the pro-
priety of silver evening slippers. His
hazy reaction was, “Swell looking
nurse. Wisht J was sick!" _

Jenny smiled at him professionally
as she opened the door of Lita Ber-
nard’s bedroom. Once inside, she
turned the key in the lock very softly,
and stood with her back against the
panels for a moment, forcing herself
to breathe deeply and calmly. The
bedroom door at the left remained
closed. She wondered what the
Frenchwoman, Heloise, was doing or
thinking.

HE room was as she had last seen

it, except that the yellow blankets
had been drawn up carefully around
the slender figure in the bed, and the
amber colored bed lamp had been
turned aside, so that it no longer
shone like a spotlight upon the pale,
rigid face of the still unconscious
actress. The bruised throat had been
bandaged.

For a short moment Jenny bent
above her, listening to the faint but
steady breathing. Then with silent
swiftness she tiptoed into the lighted
bathroom, her eyes going with con-
centrated attention over the appur-
tenances of the white-tiled cubicle;
the heavy towels piled on the high
rack over the tub, smaller ones neatly
hung near the laving bowl, jars of
cold eream and bath powder on the
glass shelf.

She opened the medicine cabinet,
made a perfunctory examination of
unguents and small bottles, and shook
her head. Then her eye fell on the
laundry bag hanging behind the
bathroom door. Carefully she ran
her hand down inside amid the soft
dampness of used towels. Her grop-
ing fingers found something .. . drew
out two objects. A wave of excited
crimson flooded her face as she stared
down at them. Quickly she flung a
small hand towel around them and
thrust them into the pocket of her
white uniform. As she did so there
came a soft, barely perceptible sound
from the bedroom.

Flattened into the angle made by
the half-open door and the tiled wall,
she stood rigidly, almost without
breathing. Her straining ear caught
the faintest susurrus of a rustling
skirt.

Cautiously, with infinite care, she
leaned forward so that she could look
through the crack. For the first in-
stant, nothing moved within the lim-
ited space of the long rectangle. She
could see the bed, the white uncon-
scious face of Lita Bernard, the glint
of auburn hair, the bandaged throat,
and the uncovered roundness of one
shoulder.

Then a dark shadow moved éau-
tiously across the dim, amber-tinted
gloom. A tall, gaunt woman garbed
in black—her face like a sharp white
triangle in the pasted blackness of
her hair... Heloise.

With a stealth that had something
tigerish in it, she slid along the far
side of the bed. The triangular face
was thrust forward into the gleam of
light, and from the parted lips camé
a Sharp, sibilant whisper.

*Madame! Madame! It is I! He-
loise! Speak to me! I command you!"

Jenny saw Lita Bernard's pale eye-
lids quiver; saw a spasmodic move-
ment of one of her limp hands. Her
voice came slowly, reluctantly, in a
dim, far-away murmur...

“Yes ... yes... Heloise, I hear
you...

Now a hand came creeping into the
long slit of light. Something small
and white was in it, moving toward
the actress's lips.

“Take this, Madame, it is what you
'ave longed for . . . it is what you
'ave craved. Take it, and then Ma-
dame will sleep . . . sleep! No more
awakening . . . only peace!"

Jenny whirled out from behind the

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

bathroom door and stood in the slant-
ing rectangle of light.

“You ... murderess!" she said low
and distinctly.

The Frenchwoman jerked back with
a choked scream, staring at the ap-
parition in white on the other side
of the wide bed.

“Non! Non!” she gasped out. “You
meestake ... "

“I said . . . murderess! You were
going to give her a fatal dose of
drugs, weren’t you? You’ve been at
it for years, only being very careful
not to overdo it. You found her an
easy subject to hypnotize, didn’t you,
after you had once broken down her
morale?”

The woman was glaring at the girl
across the bed with the baleful eyes
of a venomous serpent.

* YOU... ps are no nurse," .she
muttered quickly.

“I am not. But I'm Doctor Paul
Jennings’ daughter, if that conveys
anything to you, and I know mental
suggestion when I see it. The doc-
tor got no response from her, and
you did. She said exactly what you
had impressed on her subconscious
mind she must say . . . which was to
accuse Raoul Demarest of choking
her! Then she fainted again.”

The Frenchwoman’s mouth twisted
into a defiant snarl.

“Who weel believe you?
lock’ in the bat'room . . ."

*You did the locking from the in-
side," the girl said sharply. “It
might have worked, Heloise, only we
happened to get here too quickly. No
one passed us in the hall... no one
could have left the corridor after-
wards, because it was watched. The
guilty person had to be right here...
and you were!"

“They quarreled today . . . I can
prove it . . ." Her voice had sunk
to a strangled whisper.

“Of course they quarreled. And
it was about the same things; drugs
...and you. I overheard them once
in her dressing-room when I went
to interview her. He was pleading
with her to get rid of you, because
you were making an addict out of
her. But even he didn’t know of that
other more terrible power you had
over her. She was defending you;
saying that you only gave her drugs
when she needed them, that you had
no relatives, no friends, that you had
been so faithful . . . faithful!” The
girl's voice was tense with loathing.
“You’ve been like a coiled viper, wait-
ing your chance to strike. You were
afraid of Raoul’s love for her, and
his influence, afraid she would dis-
miss you. You'd have lost a meal
ticket . . . and what more, Heloise?
What had yow gotten Miss Bernard
to leave yow in her will?"

It was a chance thrust. But the
woman recoiled from it with a gasp.
Her black eyes were wild, ferocious.
*Lies! „All lies! I ’ave done not’-

I was

ing...

"Except try to kill Lita Bernard,
and put the guilt upon the man you
hated. You had to get back in here,
didn't you? No hypnotie sleep lasts
forever, and, when she recovered nor-
mal consciousness, she would deny
having said that Raoul choked her.
The truth would have finally come
out... you couldn't risk that, could
you? The white pellet there in your
hand is the answer. Put it on the
table for the doctors to examine . . .
if you dare!"

The woman was shaking. Her sal-
low, triangular face was a distorted
mask of hatred.

"The leetle pellet . . . already ees
destroy’. Ground into the carpet.
You ean prove not'ing . . . "

The girl leaned forward over the
bed, where Lita Bernard lay like
a beautiful, soulless statue.

“Oh, yes I can, Heloise. I can prove
that you did the throttling . . . un-
doubtedly after you had put her into a
hypnotic sleep. J found the big leather

(Please turn to page 66)

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(Continued from page 65)

gloves im the laundry bag, Heloise,
where you had stuffed them after you
had locked yourself in. There are
leaden disks in the finger tips...
the kind dressmakers use. And on
those metal disks will be your...
fingerprints!”

For an instant the woman rocked
back and forth, as if agitated by a
violent wind. Then she flung out her
hands blindly.

“Let me go, Mademoiselle! Let me
go, and I weel nevaire come near Ma-
dame again, I swear it. Be merci-
fill ss

The girl straightened up. She felt
herself trembling, and fought for self-
control. “It’s only a matter of min-
utes until someone comes; the nurse
or the doctor. Bring Lita Bernard
back to consciousness with truthful
memory restored . . . and I'll give you
a chance to make your getaway. You
are the one who dominates her sub-
conscious mind . . . and you must
give her the right suggestion. And
you must tell her that drugs are not
necessary. She is to forget the de-
sire for them...”

"EE big policeman heard nothing
going on in the bedroom. He turned
his head—at first lazily, then alertly.
The murmur of voices which had
seemed natural, as between nurse and
patient, had ceased. Instead, there
was a muffled jumble of sounds, as if
things were being thrown about...
or like people bumping into furniture.
He wondered if the actress was get-
ting violent. .

He stood up, just as Doctor Lyons
and Tubby eame around the corner
from the main corridor. The house
physician looked extremely angry.

“J don't believe a patient was in
my office at all," he was saying. Then
he saw the policeman's worried face.

“I guess the girl friend kinda needs
you in there,” the officer said. “Sounds
as if she's having trouble."

The doctor snapped, “What girl
friend?"

“The nurse. Jeez!”

The sound of a choked scream
filtered through the panels. The three
men sprang to the door, shook it,
then tried the other two. All were
locked.

“Jenny!” called Tubby hoarsely.

“Jenny?” echoed Doctor Lyons in-
eredulously.

There was no answer.

Tubby's face was white.
at the big cop.

“Let’s go, buddy."

Two hugely solid shoulders crashed
against the door. It shook with the
assault, then with the second healthy
lunge there came the straining shriek
of yielding wood. One of the upper
panels cracked. Tubby smashed it
inward with his foot, got his hand
through, and turned the key.

In the shadow by the big dresser
was a slender figure, crumpled and
white.

“Jenny! For God's sake—"

A towel had been stuffed cruelly
into her mouth. Her hair was in dis-
hevelment around her scratched,
bleeding face. Her eyes, as Tubby
yanked the gag lose, were dazed and
expressionless. He realized that she
had been knocked almost unconscious
by falling backward against the sharp
corner of the bureau.

“Let’s have the smelling salts, Doc,”
he said with difficulty. “And keep
those people out...”

Guests and bell boys were milling
about the opened door. The policeman
pushed them back, peremptorily.

The actress was stirring. Doctor
Lyons, completely addled by so much
unexpected responsibility, went like a
distraught mother hen back and forth
between the bed and the limp white
form in Tubby’s arms.

The sharpness of the smelling salts
brought a faint flush back to Jenny’s
pallid cheeks. She stared up into the
big, worried face above hers for a

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moment, then managed a wan smile.

*Miss Bernard . . . " she whis-
pered, *is she all right?"

“I guess so; she's coming out of
her faint. What happened, Hon?
Did she .. ."

“Heloise,” she said faintly. “I gave
her a break... and she gave me the
works. Serves me right. She caught
me off guard...”

Tubby growled out something that
boded the Frenchwoman no good, and
made a vicious gesture with his thumb
toward the door of the adjoining
bedroom.

The big policeman nodded. But
the room was empty. In the turmoil
of people in the hall, she had slipped
out unnoticed,

“We'll get her,” Tubby said through
his teeth. “Boy, we'll find her . . ."

Jenny's voice had sudden strength
in it.

“No, Tubby! She must never be
found. I won't enter a complaint
against her, and I'm sure Miss Ber-
nard won't..."

Lita Bernard was sitting up in the
bed, her eyes wide open and bewil-
dered, staring into the doctor's face.

*Raoul . she faltered weakly
... “what has happened? Where is
Raoul? Please send for him."

Jenny got dizzily to her feet, thank-
ful for Tubby's big arm around her.

“Miss Bernard," she said, gently,
"try not to be frightened . . . every-
thing is all right now. The trouble
is over . . . Heloise has gone. . .
for good. You don't need to tell
anyone about her except that she
was a treacherous servant... do you
understand me?"

The actress stared at the girl, her
violet gray eyes brimming with tears.
Then she gave a long, deep sigh that
was like the release of something im-

prisoned.
“Yes, yes, I understand. Thank
you... and thank God!”

“NICE work, pal,” Tubby said an
hour later, as a taxi was bear-
ing them not too swiftly in the di-
rection of Jenny's home. “It sounds
easy as you tell it, but I still can't
see how you figured it all out."

Jenny's bandaged head was cush-
ioned comfortably on the broad ex-
panse of his shoulder.

“I didn't. Part of it I guessed at.
The will, for instance. But it turned
out that I was right. You heard her
tell the detective . . . how before she
met Raoul she had made Heloise her
sole beneficiary. An estate in France,
jewels, bonds, quite a bit of money
...the woman was in danger of los-
ing them all."

There was a short silence, during
which Tubby was acutely conscious
of the fair head resting so confidingly
just under his chin. It took real will-
power to keep his arm from tighten-
ing around the slender figure.

“Do you think," he asked to keep
his mind in safer channels, *that Ber-
nard can be cured, permanently?"

Jenny nodded, then winced.

“I do. She isn't a hopeless case
... Heloise didn’t dare endanger the
professional work that meant bread
and butter for them both.” She
paused. Then went on softly, “Be-
sides, she’ll have unselfish love to
help her now; that’s a big thing in
itself—isn’t it?”

Almost Tubby spoke. Then pain-
fully swallowed the words that clam-
ored to be said. A girl like Jenny
. .. how could he ever hope to be
anything more than a big brother to
her? Instead, he patted her shoulder.

“You’re a good kid, Jenny.”

She drew away from his circling
arm as the taxi stopped.

“Thanks, Grandpop,” she said drily.
Then, irrelevantly, she sighed.

“You’re nice, too, Tubby . . . but
just a trifle dumb.”

Another story in this new series of
the two detectives in love—will appear
in next month's issue of Mystery.
Tubman Jones and Jenny Jennings will
again become involved in a romantic
adventure of thrills and danger, which
we hope will entertain and please you.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

I 60

SLEUTHING

A new kind of department for new writers.

Do you

know any true, unsolved “unwritten mysteries’?
This magazine will pay $100 apiece for the

best solution submitted each month!
See page 83 for contest rules.

this month’s winner!

HE recent action of Governor
| “Alfalfa Bill” Murray of Okla-
homa in granting a six-day leave
of absence from the state penitentiary
to a convicted murderer, that the
latter might go quail hunting, was
signalized by a flourish of headlines
and a chorus of “Oh My Goodnesses.”
“Outrageous,” gasped those dis-
posed to hold holy the proverbial let-
ter of the law. “An act of insanity,”
exclaimed others, ever willing to
quarrel with the state executive be-
cause of his eccentricities. “Amazing
and unprecedented,” howled still other
custom-abiding individuals.
Unprecedented? Well, not exactly.
Murray’s literal thumbing of the
nose at convention serves to call at-
tention to a more extraordinary,
though less publicized, extra-legal ap-
plication cf justice that stands today
as a mountain classic of West Vir-
ginia entitled—if it
needs must have a title
—The Man Whose Hon-

Below is

along close by the Layne home.

Because of post-morten findings in-
dicating that the woman had been
criminally assaulted and struck over
the head with some blunt instrument,
Beale and Layne were arrested and
charged with the murder.

Both were indicted by the Mingo
County grand jury and their cases
called up for trial at the July, 1926,
term. Layne obtained a change of
venue, was tried in Wyoming County
and the jury failed to agree. Later
his case was annulled in Wyoming
County. He was reindicted in Mingo
County, and again he obtained a
change of venue to Logan County
where a jury brought in a verdict
of acquittal.

Meanwhile Beale was brought to
trial in Mingo County, convicted and
sentenced to hang on September 7,
1926. A stay of sentence was granted

to permit an appeal to
the state supreme court
and he was taken to the

esty Saved Him from the "| GO SLEUTHING" Wyoming ‘County jail
Gallows. i WINNER FOR for safe keeping.

Any overalled, high- JULY At the time, Beale
booted mountaineer of was the only inmate of
Nicholas County, West e the crude wooden struc-
Virginia, can recite for- ture facetiously referred
ward and backward the JOHN L. to as a jail. It^would be
saga of Clyde Beale, the stretching the point to
man the law would kill BOWEN call him a prisoner, for
but the people wouldn’t. Newark, N. J. he was in truth a privi-

“Too honest a man leged “guest” of the
this Clyde was," they county. The jailer, a

chuckle. “He never kilt
the woman no way. Efen
he did, 'pears he'd a
skeedaddled when he had
the chanct." 2

If ever a_ convicted
murderer had the
“chanct” to ‘‘skee-
daddle,” it was Beale.
But he didn’t and that
is the reason, why, in-
stead of rotting in a
pauper's grave donated
by the state for the poor
devils who dangle at the
end of West Virginia's
legal noose, his joyous
singing rings today
through the purple, tim-
bered hills of his native
Nieholas County.

It was the evening of
May 9, 1925, that Mrs.
Rissie Perdue and her
husband, Jesse Perdue,
were walking along the
railroad tracks near
Vulcan, Mingo County,
West Virginia. The heel
came off one of the wo-
man’s slippers and the
two entered the general
store conducted by Levi
Layne a few yards
further down the tracks
to purchase a new pair
of slippers. In the store
was Beale, who had come
down from his home at
Coe, Nicholas County, to
visit his half-brother,
Layne.

While Perdue and his
wife bargained for the
slippers, someone pro-
duced a bottle of liquor and soon af-
terwards, Layne, his wife, Minnie,
Beale and the Perdue couple repaired
to the Layne home. The player piano
and the phonograph were started and
more liquor consumed. Some time dur-
ing the boisterous evening Mrs. Per-
due disappeared from the party, pre-
sumably alone.

Three days later her body was
found in the Tug River which ran

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

jolly fellow bred in the
mountains and with a
strong sense of justice
of his own, refused to
consider the situation
seriously. In his own
mind he determined that
the pleasant young man
with the ruddy face and
smiling blue eyes was
innocent of the Perdue
woman's murder. He be-
lieved Beale's story that
he had been framed be-
cause of some domestic
trouble *among my rela-
tives."

A strong bond of
friendship developed be-
tween the condemned
man and his keeper.
Beale began to take his
meals regularly at the
latter’s home and in re-
turn for his kindness in-
variably spent Mondays
at the jailer’s home
helping his wife with
the washing.

“Gee,” he remarked
one sultry August after-
noon as he and the
jailer whittled on the
door step, “this’d be a
swell day for fishin’.”

*Danged if it
wouldn't," answered the
officer. “Say, I got some
poles out in the wood
shed. Take one, dig
yourself some worms
and go see how they’re
bitin’. There's a good
spot about five miles
down the creek.”

Beale rose with alacrity, brushed
the whittlings from his rumpled khaki
trousers and hustled toward the
woodshed.

“Hey,” yelled the jailer, “I might
not be here when you get, back. You’d
better take the keys with you, so’s
you can get back into the jail when
you're through fishin’.”

And Beale took the keys and when

(Please turn to page 83)

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GUILTY BY CIRCUMSTANCE!

(Continued from page 4)

is well settled that if all the circum-
stances proved, taken together, are
equally compatible with innocence
and guilt, the defendant is entitled
to acquittal, and I, therefore, must
direct a verdict of acquittal in this
case.”

S circumstantial evidence a sort of

lost cause, a desperate hope?
Amazingly enough, the very cunning
of a crime ofttimes reaches out to
punish its perpetrator. Guilt by cir-
cumstances has a habit of pointing
irresistibly in one direction with the
stubbornness of a compass.

In the strange case of Eleanor
Potter, a nineteen-year-old boarding
School student, doctors thought na-
tural causes might have brought
about her death. Presently, however,
there came to light a set of facts
that gave the authorities a wholly
different view.

A year and a half before she died
she had met at a seaside resort a
young medical student named David
Hart. The affair was no mere sum-
mer flirtation. Quite the contrary!
The following Winter the two were
secretly married under assumed
names.

Six months went by, they were
again at the seashore, but last sum-
mer's ardent wooer—now a secret
husband—was ardent no longer.
Eleanor was insisting that the mar-
riage be revealed to her chum, May
Somers. Reluctantly David told May
their secret. Instantly May declared
her intention of urging Eleanor to
tell her mother.

His eyes blazed angrily.

“She'll ruin my prospects and her
own if she tells it now," he rasped.
“I wish she were dead and I were
out of the whole affair."

Meanwhile Eleanor had been ex-
periencing the biological consequences
of her marriage. Alarmed, she made
a three months visit to the home of
an uncle, a doctor, in a distant city.
Thanks to her uncle's surgical skill,
her cause for alarm was nonexistent
at the end of her stay. In the mean-
time, though, her mother had learned
of the marriage.

Mrs. Potter talked things over with
David. She agreed that the marriage
might be kept secret a while longer.
Eleanor was put in boarding school.
Still David was not satisfied. Eleanor
could take a college course, he urged
her mother, and nothing need be said
about the marriage for at least two
years.

But the good lady was in no mood
for further temporizing with her
daughter's future. She delivered her
ultimatum.

“The eighth of February will be the
first anniversary of the marriage.
You and Eleanor can get married by
a minister on that day and let me
hold the certificate. I'll make it pub-
lie when I see fit. Either that, or I'll
disclose the whole affair to your peo-
ple at once."

David consented. It would ruin
him, he said, to have his people know
just now.

The very next day he had a drug-
gist fill a prescription for quinine
and morphine capsules. The follow-
ing day he visited Eleanor at her
school, gave her some of the capsules
and suggested she take them for
headaches. He went away then for
a week's visit in a distant state.

When he got back to town, Eleanor
was dying. David was sent for. The
doctor attending her asked him what

the capsules contained. David told
him. It was possible, the doctor
thought, that the druggist might

have reversed the proportions of the
two drugs. Instantly David rushed
out to check up with the druggist,
and presently returned to say that
the druggist had filled the prescrip-
tion correctly. By morning Eleanor
was dead.

Others might speak of heart disease
or uraemic poisoning or a tumor on
the brain as possible causes of her

death, but not so Dr. Fuller, who at-
tended her. He realized, as he after-
wards testified at David's trial, that
the girl was in the throes of the
most profound case of morphine poi-
soning he had ever witnessed in
thirty-five years of practice.

David's capsules were innocent—or
so he protested. More than that he
proved it by the druggist who filled
the prescription and by an analysis
of two capsules he had saved out of
the lot. What David forgot to men-
tion was that, at medical school,
shortly before he gave Eleanor the
capsules, there had been lectures on
morphine and its effects. Samples
of the drug had been passed around
among the students, who had been
allowed to take it out of the bottles
and handle it.

Some other things there were that
he didn't tell about either! For ex-
ample, the wife he already had, by a
previous secret marriage, when he
married Eleanor. Then there was the
affair he had been pursuing, with a
view to monetary gain, with a girl
he had met since his marriage to
Eleanor. Small wonder he was made
frantic by Mrs. Potter's threat to
disclose that he was, as she thought,
her daughter's husband.

Then, in one important particular,
his medical learning failed him. He
didn't foresee that the autopsy on
Eleanor would show morphine pres-
ent in quantity, but no traces of
quinine.

Of course, the jury knew that no-
body had seen David fill one or more
of those capsules with morphine. The
whole case was circumstantial. Yet
they convicted him of murder in the
first degree.

Was it legal? Could a man’s life
swing on evidence like that?

“Evidence,” said the learned appeal
court that reviewed the jury’s ver-
dict, “is not to be discredited because
circumstantial. It has often more
reliable elements than direct evidence.
Where it points irresistibly and exclu-
sively to the commission by the de-
fendant of the crime, a verdict of
guilty may rest upon a surer basis
than when rendered upon the testi-
mony of eye witnesses, whose mem-
ory must be relied upon, and whose
passions or prejudices may have in-
fluenced their testimony. If, taken
together, it leads to a concjusion of
guilt with which no material fact is
at variance, it constitutes the higher
form of evidence which the law de-
mands where the life or liberty of
the defendant is at stake, and neither
jurors nor the court can conscien-
tiously disregard it."

The facts that go into the making
of a crime are of course unalterable
and cannot be changed, but the ac-
cused has the right to explain them
in a way that makes them seem in-
nocent and harmless. “These things
don’t prove anything,” is the plea of
defense counsel in cases of circum-
stantial evidence, and many times
court and jury agree with him. Yet,
all unwittingly, the accused in a des-
perate effort to concoct a plausible
explanation that will clear him often
manufactures still more evidence
against himself.

Does the accused answer questions
evasively? Does he attempt to deny
established facts? Does he contradict
witnesses whose credibility is un-
questioned? Does he make assertions
that all the other facts in the case
show to be absurd and untrue? Has
he tried to suppress damaging evi-
dence? Has he presented explana-
tions that are obviously deceptive?
Has he endeavored, by innuendo and
otherwise, to cast suspicion on others
without just cause? If he has done
any of these things, says the law,
they may be considered by the jury
as links in the chain of circumstan-
tial evidence tending to prove his
guilt. Thus ironically do a culprit's
frantic efforts to escape the law help
to fasten its clutches upon him.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1985

THE BLACK CAT

(Continued from page 11 )

Although the hostel she had a room
in was very special and inhabited ex-
clusively by nice girls, she found life
there quite lonely. So that when
musical people started taking notice
of her and asking her to their eve-
nings, it made a lot of difference to
her. That was the way she met old
Mrs. Gillingham, who was never ab-
sent from any of the Knightsbridge
evenings. She was a tradition. No
musical evening was complete with-
out her.

She had given a great many musi-
cal parties of her own in her big
house in Hans Place, up to the time
her son, Arnold, left for Dresden
about. four years ago; and it was
hoped she would give a great many
more, when her son came back from
the opera at Stuttgart, a year or so
from now. But in the meantime she
had found it rather laborious to keep
up the big house and to give parties
on her own, so she had rented it and
gone with one maid into a labor-
saving flat round the corner.

The Gillinghams were a very musi-
eal family. Old Gillingham was, of
course, the composer. His wife still
played the ’cello with real charm. A
great deal was hoped for from young
Arnold after his intensive training
and experience in Germany. But old
Gillingham was dead. Arnold was
away. A musical evening only be-
gins in the evening. In other words,
old Mrs. Gillingham was quite as
lonely as young Jill Heathcote. The
two women accordingly saw a great
deal of each other, and entertained
each other to lavish cups of tea and
piled plates of meringues in the nice
hostel and the labor-saving flat.

It was some little time after Jill’s
first recital that Mrs. Gillingham an-
nounced the glad news that her son
had received an offer to sing in a
newly-formed opera company in Lon-
don and was coming back from Stutt-
gart in two or three months. Mrs.
Gillingham was naturally extremely
happy about it, but she had too much
to do to have much time even to be
happy. There was the house in gen-
eral to get ready, not to mention a
special private bathroom for Arnold,
leading out of his bedroom. And then,
of course, there was going to be a
party for him. It was impossible to
have Arnold coming back after all
this time without giving a party for
him. And it would be a pleasant way
for him to meet all the people con-
nected with the new opera company
without any delay.

All this meant that for the next
couple of months old Mrs. Gillingham
and Jill Heathcote saw practically
nothing of each other. And then, one
morning, Jill had a telephone call
from the old lady. She said she
would go crazy if she didn’t get away
from the house and the party, for
an hour or two. Would Jill be a dar-
ling and have tea with her at Gun-
ter’s and talk about something else
to her for a little time. Jill never
found any difficulty in being a dar-
ling with Mrs. Gillingham. They had
tea together. The usual piled plates
of meringues was set before them.

“You'll pour, Jill, won't you?" said
Mrs. Gillingham. “I’m on holiday."

“Sugar? Milk? It’s so long since
we've met I've forgotten. I’m ashamed
of myself.”

“Sugar, please. And no milk. Lots
of sugar.”

“Oh, of course. Three lumps, isn’t
it?”

“Four.

“What?”

“Arnold takes no sugar,
swamps his cup with milk!”

“Really?”

“He’s a positive cat for milk.”

“Oh really?” There was a faint
crepitation at the back of Jill’s neck.
“Really?” she said again. “How
odd!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gillingham, “and
talking about eats . . ."

“Were we?"

“I was saying that Arnold was as

Isn't it funny?"

but

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

fond of milk as a cat. What's the
matter with you, my dear?"

“Nothing. What on earth should
be the matter?"

"[sn't it lucky? A black cat came
into the house today. I found him
in Arnold's room. He's just installed
himself as if the place belonged to
him."

“A black cat?"

"Yes. Won't Arnold be excited!
And it's so lucky, too. A black cat!"

“With a little white arrow below
its neck?"

*How very strange, Jill! Yes, with
a little white arrow below its neck!
What made you ask that?"

*Nothing, Mrs. Gillingham, noth-
ing!"

“But how absurd, Jill! Do you
know anyone near us who's lost a
black cat with a white arrow?"

*No! I'l have some more tea, I
think."

*My dear, your hand's shaking!
I'll pour out for you! What on earth
made you ask about that white ar-
row?"

“It was only that . . . when I was
a little girl... we had a black cat
with a white arrow . . . I was very
fond of it!"

“Oh I see! Forgive me! I shouldn't
have insisted! I had a dog, once
when I was about your age. . . .
Even now I can't bear to talk of it
... Shall we order more meringues?"

“No, thank you, Mrs. Gillingham!
I think ... if we could get out into
the open air A

“Certainly, my dear.” She called
the waitress, then turned again to
Jill. “Come early, darling, won’t
you? You're going to like Arnold.
And I’m sure he’s going to adore you.
Yes, Jill, thanks. I'd love you to see
me into my taxi. Till Tuesday, Jill.”

“Till Tuesday.”

UESDAY came, bringing with it

Arnold Gillingham and the party.
Both were a great success. All musi-
cal London was there and though
Mrs. Gillingham was not able to de-
vote as much time to young Jill
Heathcote as she would have liked
to, her son, Arnold, made up for it.
He was extremely attentive to her.
The observation was made by quite
a number of people that he had fallen
for her. He hardly took his eyes off
her face the whole evening. And
that seemed rather unfortunate, for
the young lady seemed to have no
eyes for him at all. She seemed pre-
occupied, as if she were on the look-
out for some other young man than
Arnold Gillingham, some young man
who had not turned up.

It was quite late in the evening
before Jill managed to have a quiet
word with old Mrs. Gillingham. She
had been hovering round her for some
time.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gillingham,” she
said awkwardly. “If you don’t mind
my asking ... I suppose you'll think
it silly of me—”

“Yes, my dear, what is it?”

“I was rather looking forward to
seeing it, I know it’s stupid of me.
Where is it?”

“What on earth do you mean, Jill?”

“The black cat—you know—with
the white arrow.”

“Oh, the black cat! Oh yes, of
course! What a funny child you are!
Let me see now, the black cat! I
don’t think I’ve seen him all day!
But I’ve been so busy, Jill, haven’t
I, that you’d hardly expect—”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Gillingham.
Please forgive me. That'll be all
right, Mrs. Gillingham!”

“Wait a moment, now, Jill, now
that you bring the matter up.” The
old lady stood and thought for a mo-
ment. “I did notice this morning he
wasn’t there! Yes, so I did!”

“Where?”

“He’s been lying along the foot of
my bed every morning when I got
up. It was quite pleasant seeing him
there—company, you know. He

(Please turn to page 70)

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te shoes look

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————————

THE BLACK

CAT
(Continued from page 69)

wasn't there this morning. I hope
he's not gone off for good. Arnold
would have loved him. Wait a mo-
ment. I always put a bowl of milk
out for him on the balcony outside my
room. I'll see if he's had it."

“Oh no, please, Mrs. Gillingham.
You’ve so much to do. I’ve worried
you enough already.”

“Not at all, Jill. I'd like to know.
Would you like to come with me, or
will you wait?”

“Please, may I wait?”

“Pll not be a moment, Jill.” Mrs.
Gillingham went and returned. She
looked quite crestfallen. “No,” she
said, “I’m afraid he's gone off again.
He was such a nice creature. Arnold
would have loved him."

“Perhaps he hasn't gone off," said
Jill "Perhaps he's about the house
somewhere."

“Come along and have something
to drink, my dear. You don't look
at all well. It'll do you good.”

RNOLD GILLINGHAM proposed

to Jill Heathcote rather more
than a year after his return from
Germany.

Their marriage was exceedingly
happy. They had no ‘children, so
they both went on with their singing,
he with his work in opera, she with
her Lieder. But after a few years
Arnold Gillingham found himself
more and more fascinated by the
actual drama of opera and more and
more impeded by the necessity for
converting it into florid language and
unsubtle gesture. He became, in fact,
an actor on the legitimate stage,
where he scored so signal a success
that before long America was clam-
oring for him. If America persists
long enough, she usually has her way,
and she had it with Arnold Gilling-
ham. He went over to New York
with a play in which he had scored
high honors in London, and Broad-
way saluted him no less resoundingly.

It was a great grief to both of
them that Jil could not accompany
him, but a series of recitals in the
Seandinavian capitals had been fixed
up for her. They wrote to each other
daily during the eight months of
their separation, and when at last
Arnold cabled that he had definitely
turned his back on the siren lures
of Hollywood, and would be with her
in a week or two, she was as excited
as a young bride on the morning of
her wedding. It was, indeed, another
honeymoon they were both looking
forward to, and because it was the
time of plumy white lilacs she had
their flat as filmy with it as a snow-
storm.

She drove down to Southampton
to meet him, and almost fainted with
joy when the ship came to at length
against the dock-side, and she saw
him, dark-haired and bright-eyed,
leaning over the far-off rail, waving
his handkerchief at her like a hyster-
ical school-boy. The wait that fol-
lowed seemed more than usually end-
less. They shouted at each other till
their throats were hoarse, though
they could not hear a word. Their
arms felt as if they must fall from
their shoulders, they had waved at
each other so long and wildly. Then
at last the clotted heaps of passen-
gers along the decks disintegrated.
Porters tore up the gangways for
luggage, and staggered down again.
The passengers disembarked.

But Arnold Gillingham did not dis-
embark. Half-an-hour passed and an
hour passed, and Arnold Gillingham
did not disembark. Jill tore about
from counter to counter in the cus-
toms shed, returned to the dock,
seized stewards, customs officials,
passport officials. His luggage was
neatly stacked waiting for him at
the G section of the counter. But he
had not presented himself with his
keys. He had not presented his pass-
port. He had paid all his final tips on
board ship, but he had not tipped the

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porter who had carried his luggage
to the shed. He had not disembarked.
Or if he had, he had disappeared.

He could not have disappeared from
the customs shed. The boat-train had
gone long ago, and it was impossible
that the boat train had carried him
off. He must be still on board some-
where. He must be wandering about
somewhere, in a state of aphasia, or
he had fallen down in a faint in
some dark corner. But it is impos-
sible to go wandering about in a liner
without being seen; and no liner is
so big that you can fall down in a
faint in a dark corner without some-
body finding you after a few hours’
intensive search.

But Arnold Gillingham was not to
be found anywhere. It was as if he
had never been born.

ILL’S father and mother and Arn-

old’s mother were wired for and
arrived in Southampton within an
hour or two of each other. They
found Jill in a state of delirium in a
hotel bedroom. It was not judged
safe to move her from Southampton
for a full week; and in any case she
refused to go. The highways and
byways of the city were scoured for
Arnold, if, perchance, he had some-
how slipped through the barriers.
Patrols went out on the country
roads. A description was sent out
over the ether. But Arnold Gilling-
ham was not to be found anywhere.
After a month with her parents in
the country, during which time she
slowly fought her way back to sanity
and convalescence, Jill returned at
last to her small house in Hampstead,
on the edge of the heath. She knew
that some hideous mischance had be-
fallen her husband. She knew with
equal certainty that her husband was
not dead.

On the morning after her return
to Hampstead, it did not surprise her
that there was a weight over her
feet, which had not been there when
she had gone to bed. She did not
open her eyes for some time, realiz-
ing that if she screamed and tore her
iair now, she would go irrevocably
mad.

HE black cat with the white ar-

row was very devoted to her. He
purred with pleasure when she came
into the room. He rubbed up af-
fectionately against her legs. She
did not let fly at him in the effort to
kick his small skull open. She said
gentle words to him. She saw that
his saucer was always full of milk.
But she never bent down to stroke
him. She felt that that might burn
the flesh through to the bone.

He looked as beautiful as ever. His
eyes were emeralds. His skin was
glossier than the richest black velvet.
He was, perhaps, just a little plumper
and lazier than before.

It was about a week after he ap-
peared that she requested her chauf-
feur to come into her room. As far
as it was humanly possible, she saw
that the black cat was not there,
too. She looked under every piece of
furniture, opened the two cupboards,
saw that windows and doors were

shut. No, the black cat was not
there.
“Listen, Bennett,” she said. “I

want you to do me a great kindness.”

“Yes, madame,” he said.

“I hate asking you to do it. I want
you never to say a word to anyone
about it.”

“You can rely on me, madame.”

“You know that black cat that
found its way into the house?”

“Yes, madame?”

“I want you to drown it. I want
you to make sure you drown it.”

“T’ll take every precaution, madame,
Ill tie it up carefully in a sack. I'll
drive over to one of the ponds on
the heath with it. I’ll put some bricks
in the sack, too."

“T don't want to know what you'll
do or where you'll do it—so long as
it gets done. I want it done before
tomorrow morning."

"Tt will be done, madame."

"Can I rely on you?"

“It will be done, madame."

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

THE

ILL had taken a tablet to keep

herself asleep during the night,
but she was conscious as the clock
struck six. It would be hours before
the maid came in to draw the cur-
tains and to put down her morning
tea. She did not dare to open her
eyes, for fear they should rest upon
a thicker smudge of darkness around
the foot of her bed. She did not dare
to move her feet, for fear that she
would find a weight heavier than
the bedclothes lying across them. She
lay there prone for many minutes,
hearing only the loud knocking of
her heartbeats.

Then suddenly she lunged out un-
der the bedclothes with her feet.
Nothing impeded them save bedsheet
and blanket and filmsy eiderdown,
nothing at all. She thrust out toward
her bed-side lamp, and switched it
on. There was no cat on bed or chair
or floor or anywhere she could see.
She ran over toward the curtains
and drew them. The reom was
flooded with dawn. She ran back into
the room and lifted the bedclothes
and hanging chintzes. There was
no black cat anywhere. She thrust
her thumb exultantly into the bell-
push.

“I’m sorry, Johnson," she said, “to
get you up so early. Make me a cup
of tea at once. I want to get out!”

She felt as if she had sloughed off
from her wrists and ankles a length
of manacle that had been fettered
to them she could not remember how
long—for years now, since the un-
speakable day in Southampton. She
swung like a boy athlete across the
slopes and ditches. If not tomorrow,
then the next day, he would be at her
side again. He would be back from
the place where he was immured
now, in a prison cell where no mirror
hung in which he could see who he
himself was, where there was no win-
dow through which he could gaze out
toward the eyes of his love. The
opaque enchantment would be broken.
He would be back again.

She went home and got Bennett to
take her out to Richmond Park, for
she was too restless to stay at home
and it was still too early to call on
any of her friends. She did not want
to get further away than Richmond
Park, she did not want to get out of
London at all. He might come back
today. She must not be too far away
when he came back. She would have
lunch out, and tea out, and telephone
every so often.

Su did some shopping, buying silk
stockings she did not need, of a
shade she disliked. She went into two
flower-shops and had two huge bou-
quets sent home. She called on several
of her friends and stayed nowhere
more than ten minutes. Her eyes
were distended and her cheeks were
flushed. They wondered what was
wrong with her and consulted each
other darkly over their telephones
the moment she had left.

She telephoned home half a dozen
times at least that day but no visitor
had arrived. Evening came and she
still postponed her return to Hamp-
stead. She ordered a small meal in
a restaurant in Dover Street, but
could not eat it. She went into a
cinema and after half-an-hour went
out again. At last she requested
Bennett to drive her home.

She assured herself she was not
really disappointed he had not yet
arrived. It was possible that he had
been at the other end of the country
the moment he had come to himself
again. He might even have gone back
to America when the ship had sailed
again, and the whole ocean was be-
tween them. There might be a cable
from him before he could himself ar-
rive. She told Johnson she would
like to go to bed immediately.

She fell asleep quite peacefully.
She was very tired. She had been
asleep for two or three hours when,
as once before, she became aware
she was not in the room alone. She

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

BLACK CAT

heard a faint drawing of breath and
a whimpering. She heard also a
faint drip, drip of water. She did
not dare to switch the light on.
“Bennett! Bennett!” she shrieked,
again and again. For a long time
the sound was hardly more than a
whisper. Then at last the sound
ripped through the fabric of her ter-
ror. The light was switched on. John-
son and Bennett were both in the
room beside her. She was still shriek-
ing “Bennett” at the top of her voice.
Her hands were pounding away fran-
tically at the bedclothes.

*Please, madame!" Bennett soothed
her, “please! Now please don’t take
on so! It’s quite easy to explain!
I'm very sorry indeed I didn’t . . ."

"Is it there?" cried Mrs. Gilling-
ham.

“Tt was there" said Johnson. *We've
driven it out! It was soaking wet!

“The carpet is in a frightful state!”
he added.

“I’m sorry, madame. I can’t tell
you how sorry I am. I’m afraid I’ve
let you down badly.”

“How ... how . . ." she shouted.
Then she fell into a violent fit of
shuddering and could say no more.

“It bit and tore its way out of
the sack. The mouth was full of
blood, and the claws too.

“We'll have to send this carpet
away to be cleaned,” said Johnson.

Mrs. Gillingham seized Bennett’s
wrist. “Any cat could have done the
same thing," she whispered. She
stared at him dreadfully.

“T don’t quite see what you mean,
madame. Of course, madame. It
was strong enough. It was a tough
sack. I saw to that, at least.”

Mrs. Gillingham turned round sud-
denly to the maid. “Go away,” she
said. “Put the kettle on! Make some
tea!”

“Won't you take a glass of brandy,
madame?” asked Johnson.

“Yes, I should, madame,” said Ben-

nett.

“You'll find some in the little cup-
board,” said Mrs. Gillingham. “Pour
some out for me. Will you put that
kettle on, Johnson?”

“Yes, madame, at once.”

“Shall I hold the glass for you?”
said Bennett. Her hands were shak-
ing so that the brandy was trickling
down her chin.

“Thank you.” She finished the
brandy, then she put her hands under
the bed-clothes, as if the room was
too cold for them. Then she lay back
with her eyes shut for two or three
minutes.

“Shall I go, madame?” whispered
Bennett.

“Don’t go,” she bade him.

At length she opened her eyes
again. They turned round toward
his very slowly. There was a queer
slyness in them.

“Listen, Bennett!” she said.

“Yes, madame?”

“There mustn’t be any mistake
next time.”

*[ beg your pardon."

“I want you to do it properly next
time. I know exactly what I want
you to do. There must be no mistake."

Bennett remained quite silent for
a full half-minute. He seemed to sway
slightly on his feet.

“Im sorry, madame," he said.

“What do you mean?"

“T could do no such thing.”

“Not . .. " she started, “not .. ."

*Not if it cost me my situation.
No!” He shuddered. “No, madame!
That is quite final!”

She closed her eyes again.

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was ex-
tremely faint and tired. “I can quite
understand. I will have to make my
own arrangements.”

“I’m very sorry indeed, madame. I
couldn't. Not a second time!"

‘(MAT Saved After Week Down a
Pit, the heading of the news-

paper item ran. “A cat was tied in

a sack and thrown down a flooded pit
(Please turn to page 72)

Every woman should

EVERY sophisticated woman realizes

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The reason is simple. Creams and sticks
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Although chemists have worked on the
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That is why women who want to be
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€ To know the comfort of
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dry, mail this coupon
Name

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Dept. 7A5,
(In Canada, address P. O. Box 2320, Montreal)

make this

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Test this by smelling your dress tonight

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If you are not a regular Odorono user, when
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Once you realize that nothing, not even
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today with 8 cents.

Address

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THE BLACK
CAT

(Continued from page 71)

shaft in Lanarkshire more than a,
week ago, but it managed to get its
paws through the sack and cling to
a plank.

“During the week-end two miners
heard it meowing. The authorities
said ‘No’ to their request to be al-
lowed to go down. But they man-
aged to rescue it with a grappling-
hook and a chain."

Mrs. Gillingham smiled as she
folded the newspaper and put it away
in a drawer. It was very reassuring
to have it about and open it up when
for a moment you felt the horror
tingle at the scalp. The horror came
only while the black cat with the
white arrow was out of the room.
As soon as it came into the room,
horror went and hatred took its place.
The foul interloper! The hellish thief!
You black fiend, won’t you get out
of his way? Won’t you let him come
back? You won't, eh?

There'll be no grappling-hook and
chain to lift you out, my pretty.
There was mever a hook and chain
could lift a heap of cinders.

HE out-of-work plumber from

Camden Town made no bones
about it at all. It seemed money for
jam to him. Five pounds! He would
do the same thing to a bloke for five
pounds, he assured her with a leer.
That was a joke, of course, but it did
not seem to her as funny as he
thought.

She was present during the whole
performance. When it was over she
was so sick she could not move from
the foul little room for an hour. But
it was over, at all events. It had
been dead enough at the bottom of
the washing tub, with a flat iron tied
round its neck. It had been dead
enough after half-an-hour of that.
If it wasn't there had not been much
life left after the paraffin had been
poured over it and the carcass had
been burned before her eyes.

She came to herself after the hide-
ous fit of vomiting, staggered along
the street and round the corner,
where Bennett was waiting for her.
So she drove home. In both soul and
body she now felt extraordinarily well
at ease. She entered the house and
went to bed immediately. She did
not get up till late next morning. Her
eyes were bright and clear as pansies.
She ate a breakfast hearty enough
for a ploughboy.

HE was not impatient. She knew
S she could bide her time now. Arn-
old might return in a day or a week
or a month, but he would return sure
enough. She went about among her
friends with a sort of furtive seren-
ity on her face. They nudged each
other's shoulders and talked behind
their hands. They were convinced she
had a lover and were delighted for
her sake. At last she had someone
in her life to take the place of that
atrocious actor who had played so
mean and wicked a trick on her.

She was, not impatient. She knew
that when he at last set out to come
to her again he would convey a sign
to her so that she should be waiting
for him in the home where they had
been so happy together.

On the second Saturday morning
after the extermination of their en-
emy, she found herself awake an hour
earlier than usual. She realized she
was smiling, and was aware she
smiled in the sweet certainty that his
feet were now, at this moment in
time and place, set on their way to
her. She snuggled her head lux-
uriously into the soft pillow and
stretched her arms out before
her, knowing they were empty now
and that her love would fill them some
night soon and many years of nights
to come. :

*He'll come for tea," she said. “I
feel sure he won't get here earlier than

that. He's like a woman, preferring
his tea to any other meal in the day."

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She ordered tea for two that day,
at five o'clock. “I’m expecting some-
body,” she said. “It’s quite possible
he won’t get here in time, but you
might as well lay the tea-table for
two.”

The piled silver tea-tray looked
quite lovely in the leaping firelight
reflecting the silver pot and jugs and
the Spode ware. There were scones
and potato-cakes and honey and two
sorts of jam. There were meringues
and eclairs, for he had inherited his
mother’s sweet tooth. But he had not
come by five o’clock or by five-thirty.
She knew he would not be coming
then, for though he took more milk
with his tea than tea, he did not
like the tea to stand brewing in the
pot. She made a good tea herself,
then asked for the tray to be taken
away.

She ordered tea for two the next
day and the day after, but he did
not come. He did not come on the
fourth and the fifth day. On the
next day when she ordered tea for
two, there was a note of defiance in
her voice. Her lips were thin and
hard. When her housekeeper mum-
bled a word or two in acknowledg-
ment of her order, she turned round
furiously as if the woman had been
insolent, and she would dismiss her
on the spot. But no word left her
mouth. Her mouth still wide open,
she turned and walked heavily out
of the room.

On the seventh day she could not
bring herself to ring for the house-
keeper to give her the day’s orders.
The woman came at length of her
own accord. “Will madame be in for
lunch?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Gillingham. She
did not lift her head from her news-
paper.

Then there was silence. Neither
broke it for many seconds. Then at
last, with fear in her voice, the wo-
man brought out again: “And tea,
madame?”

“Yes.”

Once more there was silence. Mrs.
Gillingham broke it in a whisper only
just louder than the silence itself.
“Yes,” she said again, “for two.”

IVE o’clock came. He was, of

course, not there. Five o’clock went
by, minute upon eternal minute went
by, and he was not there. She sat
hunched up in her chair over against
the tea-table. Her eyelids lay as
heavily upon her eyes as the lead
panels of a coffin. In the extremity
of her woe her chin sagged down
upon her bosom.

And then it was she heard the
sound of a hand upon the outer door-
handle. She did not open her eyes.
For she knew she had not heard it.
It was impossible that she had heard
it. And then once more she heard
the sound of a hand upon the outer
door-handle, a hand too ‘feeble to
open the door, too feeble to do any-
thing but shake the handle slightly
in its socket. It was the hand of one
who has come a long way, after en-
countering many and desperate ob-
stacles.

Her eyes were wide open now. They
were flooded with light like a glade
of daffodils where the sun has just
penetrated. Her cheeks flared like a
swung lamp. She ran over toward
the door and flung it wide to greet
her lover.

But he was not there. She stood
there, staring. She called his name
out wildly three times, but he did not
come. She turned toward the room
again, like a creature swivelled on a
pivot. There was a black cat with a
white arrow on his chest, standing
among the tea-cups, his legs firmly
arched on the silver tray. The head
was lowered toward the milk-jug,
where he stood lapping daintily for
several seconds. The tongue was as
pretty as a piece of pink coral, like
a lizard's tongue almost, the way it
darted in and out. He looked as
plump and well-conditioned as any
cat had ever been before. He stopped
lapping the milk at length, and
raised his head, and looked steadily
into her eyes.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

FILL THE JAM CLOSET

(Continued from page 41)

Crushed Strawberry Jam

7 cups (3 lbs.) sugar

4 cups (2 lbs.) strawberry pulp
¥% bottle fruit pectin

1 tablespoon lemon juice

Measure sugar and strawberry
pulp, as prepared above, into large
kettle; add lemon juice and mix well.
Bring to a full rolling boil over hot-
test fire. To reduce foaming, %4 tea-
spoon butter may be added. Stir con-
stantly before and while boiling. Boil
hard 4 minutes. Remove from fire
and stir in pectin. Pour quickly.
Paraffin jam when cool. Makes about
10 glasses (6 fluid ounces each).

Combination Raspberry Jelly
and Jam

4 quarts fully ripe raspberries

Crush or grind about 4 quarts fully
ripe raspberries. Place in Canton
flannel jelly bag to drip. To hasten
dripping, turn pulp over about every
5 minutes, without opening jelly bag,
by holding bag on each side and
stretching cloth, thus bringing up bot-
tom of bag. Drip until 4 cups juice
have run through. Do not drip over-
night as uncooked juice ferments
quickly. Use juice for Raspberry Jelly.

Use 4 cups raspberry pulp left in
bag for Raspberry Jam. If desired,
part of pulp may be sieved to remove
some of seeds before measuring.

Raspberry Jam
6% cups (2% lbs.) sugar
4 cups (2 lbs. raspberry pulp
% bottle fruit pectin

Measure sugar and raspberry pulp
as prepared above, into large. kettle,
mix well, and bring to a full rolling
boil over hottest fire. Stir constantly
before and while boiling. Boil hard
1 minute. Remove from fire and stir
in pectin. Then stir and skim by
turns for just 5 minutes to cool
slightly and to prevent floating fruit.
Pour quickly. Makes about 10 glasses
(6 fluid ounces each).

Red Raspberry and Currant
Jelly

4% cups (2% lbs.) juice
7 cups (3 lbs.) sugar
15 bottle fruit pectin

To prepare juice, crush thoroughly
about 2% quarts (3% pounds) fully
ripe currants and raspberries in equal
amounts. Add % cup water, and
bring just to a boil. Place fruit in
jelly cloth or bag and squeeze out
juice.

Measure sugar and juice into large
saucepan; mix. Bring to a boil over
hottest fire and at once add bottled
fruit pectin, stirring constantly. Then
bring to a full rolling boil and boil
hard % minute. Remove from fire,
skim, pour quickly. Paraffin jelly
when ‘cool. Makes about 11 glasses
(6 fluid ounces each).

Harlequin Jelly

(Cherry, raspberry and
strawberry)

4 cups (2 lbs.) juice
7% cups (3% lbs.) sugar

1 bottle fruit pectin

To prepare juice, crush % pound
each fully ripe cherries and currants.
Add % cup water. Bring to a boil,
cover and simmer 8 minutes. Crush
1 pound each fully ripe raspberries
and strawberries; add to simmered
currants and cherries and continue
simmering 2 minutes longer. Place
fruit in jelly cloth or bag and squeeze
out juice.

Measure sugar and juice into large
saucepan and mix. Bring to a boil
over hottest fire and at once add bot-
tled fruit pectin, stirring constantly.
Then bring to a full rolling boil and
boil hard % minute. Remove from
fire, skim, pour quickly. Paraffin when
cool. Makes about 11 glasses (6 fluid
ounces each).

currant,

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Peach Jelly

3 cups (1% lbs.) juice
6% cups (2% lbs.) sugar

1 bottle fruit pectin

To prepare juice, remove pits from
about 8% pounds peaches. Do not
peel. Crush peaches thoroughly. Add
% cup water, bring to a boil, cover,
and simmer 5 minutes. Place fruit
in jelly cloth or bag and squeeze.

Measure sugar and juice into large
saucepan and mix. Bring to a boil
over hottest fire and at once add
bottled fruit pectin, stirring con-
stantly. Then bring to a full rolling
boil and boil hard % minute. Re-
move from fire, skim, pour quickly.
Paraffin when cool Makes about 9
glasses (6 fluid ounces each).

Grape Jam
415 cups (2% lbs.) prepared fruit
7 cups (3 lbs.) sugar

¥% bottle fruit pectin.

To prepare fruit, slip skins from
about 3 pounds fully ripe grapes.
Simmer pulp, covered, 5 minutes. Re-
move seeds by sieving. Chop or grind
skins and add to pulp. Add % cup
water and if desired, grated rind of
1 orange. Stir until mixture boils,
Simmer, covered, 30 minutes. (Wild
grapes, Malagas and other tight-
skinned grapes may be stemmed,
crushed whole, simmered with % cup
water 30 minutes, sieved, and then
measured. With tight-skinned grapes
add juice of 1 lemon to water. Use
4 cups prepared fruit.)

Measure sugar and prepared fruit
into large kettle, mix well, and bring
to a full rolling boil over hottest fire.
Stir constantly before and while boil-
ing. Boil hard 1 minute. Remove
from fire and stir in bottled fruit
pectin. Pour quickly. Paraffin jam
when cool Makes about 11 glasses
(6 fluid ounces each).

Grape Jelly

4 cups (2 lbs.) juice
7% cups (3% lbs.) sugar

% bottle liquid fruit pectin

To prepare juice, stem about 3
pounds fully ripe grapes and crush
thoroughly. Add % cup water, bring
to a boil, cover and simmer 10 min-
utes. Place fruit in jelly cloth or
bag and squeeze out juice. (Concord
grapes give best color and flavor. If
Malagas or other tight-skinned
grapes are used, use 3% cups grape
juice and add juice of 2 lemons.

Measure sugar and juice into large
saucepan and mix. Bring to a boil
over hottest fire and at once add bot-
tled fruit pectin, stirring constantly.
Then bring to a full rolling boil and
boil hard 4% minute. Remove from
fire, skim, pour. Cool and paraffin.
Makes 11 glasses (6 fluid ounces
each).

NEWS FLASH!

Two minutes only, and a per-
fectly ordinary and inexpen-
sive glass becomes a thing of
individuality and beauty, with
your own monogram perma-
nently etched on it. For further
information write to Jane Dale,
Shopping Editor, care of Mys-
tery Magazine, 55 Fifth Ave-
nue, New York, N. Y.

SSSS
WGESTION
POU

"Deemar's/;

. AIDS DIGESTION

GRIFFIN
ALLWITE

GRIFFIN,
ALUWITE

Enjoy Warm Weather

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OUT ON HIS FEET

(Continued from page 16)

hadn’t gone off to Denver or Seattle.
The morning paper was on the table.
He reached for it, glanced at the
date—Thursday the 20th; that was
the day he had hoped would follow
last night, last night having been
Wednesday the nineteenth. Hell, the
world was all right.

He pulled a silken cord, and as if
that by direct connection had popped
it open, a door swung and in came
Chico, his valet—a Mexican, that is
to say, an Aztec, a slender, slant-
eyed Indian. Chico wished his mas-
ter good-morning as he silently placed
the scalloped silver tray with its glit-
tering happy array of siphon, crystal
bowl and glass, its decanter of Cour-
voisier on the table.

Chris sat up to take his medicine.
He looked at it. He took a sip—a
careful, lyrical little sip—and it went
down cold, and in darkness was lost
like a seed, but it was a seed that
immediately sprouted, that blossomed
into a sweet warmth and spreading
strength.

Chris thought lovingly of Beth;
and he thought, too, how swell it was
to waken of a morning in your own
home, in your own separated spirit,
so to speak: to wake up, in short,
a bachelor!

HERE he dropped the pretty crystal
glass and it smashed. He stared at
his hands. There was dried brown
blood on them. There was blood on
his pillow, too. He threw that pillow
across the room, jumped out of bed
and in three long strides was through
his bathroom door and into the deep
green water of the sunken tub. And
he washed himself. And the blood
wasn't his. No, it wasn't his.

“Chico!” he yelled. Chris Cogh-
lan was scared. He was so scared
as he stood under an icy shower,
Chico rubbing his back, that he pulled
a clear memory out of last night’s
blank . . . Osborne. Osborne and Beth
on the terrace. Chris remembered his
own blazing anger as he, coming on
them from behind those damn extrav-
agant show-off peach trees up there
on the thirty-second floor—as he saw
how Beth had to pull her arm from
Osborne's grasp; and then... Well,
then it was blank.

"Chico!" Chris said, and whirled
around to look the fellow in his slant
eyes... “How was I last night—
this morning—when I came home?"

Chico's jet pupils moved slightly, a
flicker of cold light: “Bloody, Sig-
nor!” He added: “I burn your shirt;
too much; all over.” He put the
enormous turkish towel into the cov-
ered basket. “I say, ‘How you get
like this? You shove me away. You
have been running, Signor. You are
breathing, so—like the toro before he

gets the spada. You shove me. You
say: ‘Chico pack, pack quick! We
go to Mexico. So I pack. So when

is done all I come back here and you
are asleep, Signor.”

As Chico talked he swiftly aided
his master to dress. Chris hadn’t
even noticed it was the brown tweed.
As Chris turned to the mirror to knot
a tie he had blindly chosen he looked
into his own staring eyes. In swift
sequence, in the frightful clarity of
his high-speed imagination, Chris
saw old Judge McKenzie, his shock
of white hair, his callous yawning—
showing gold molars— Chris saw
himself, Chris Coghlan, the great
mouthpiece, the district attorney’s
own Enemy Number One, Chris
Coghlan not down there, conquering
another jury; but there, up there, up
there—the defendant being tried for
murder. His shoulders were stiff, his
right hand was stiff and sore. He
spread the fingers open and closed
them. Chico (born of a race that
think blood and death are funny)
smiled with pleasure at whatever pic-
ture his master’s gesture engendered
in his dark and secret mind... .

The door opened. Doctor George
Fulton Searles, the famous—the in-

famous surgeon, specialist in women
—and how—came quietly into the
room.

He was a small man, a damned fop
with pointed shoes and spats and
smooth, too-smooth gray clothing. He
had an obscene little, sharp-edged
beard, quite black, and wide unde-
fined eyes, like oysters if that’s a
decent simile. He fastened those eyes
in a long straight gaze on Chris’s
clear, terrified blue ones.

“So you’re still here?” Dr. Fulton
said at last.

“And why the hell shouldn’t I be
here? How’d you get in?”

“The elevator is functioning. I
rode up in it. Your door is unlocked.
I opened it. You’re not very friendly,
this afternoon."

*What do you want?"

Doctor Fulton raised his hands a
little. His eyes shifted. He started
to say something, hesitated. His
shifting eyes saw the bloody pillow
where it lay in a corner. “Blood?”
said he softly. He looked from Chico
to Chris. “I see blood,” he said.

Chris ran to him, caught his gray
lapels, shouted into his face. “Tell
me, for God’s sake. What happened?
Fulton, I drew a blank! From the
time Beth and Osborne had words on
the terrace, I can’t remember a de-

tail, not a thing, not a word. Tell
me!” shaking him. “What did you
come here for? Tell me!”

Fulton shoved at him. His
strength was mild. He had a more
powerful weapon. Words. “Take it

easy, Counselor,” he said. “You don’t
know your strength!”

“That’s God’s truth, I don’t!”

Freed, the little doctor stepped
back, straightened his clothing. “You
strangled him.” He licked his thin,
gray lips: “After you had struck
him full in the face. It smashed his
nose, splintered the sinus. He bled.”

Chris stared at his own hands. He
was white. A muscle in his left cheek
worked visibly. The bright world,
all hope was smashed.

Doctor Fulton walked to a window,
pulled down the tapestry curtains,
gazed down at East Sixtieth Street
and Central Park. He said, after a
moment, and without turning: “Chris-
topher, I’ve got to tell you some-

thing. Can you take it? Get your-
self a drink.”
“The hell with that. Tell me. It’s

worse waiting for the unknown
than..."

“The police are there now, District
Attorney Brandon himself."

“Yes? Go on, go on, Am I sus-
pected?”

The doctor turned slowly. He whis-
tled an exclamation. “Suspected, for
God’s sake! Your fingerprints are
everywhere. The butler saw you run-
ning off, the elevator boy....Itsa
clear case. You could plead insanity,”
Doctor Fulton said evenly. “I’d back
you up there. Beth could testify. . . ."

“She could not testify. I’ll not drag
her into this.” He saw Brandon at
that trial. He saw more. The bug-
house; the end of his career; he saw
the D. A.’s vengeful satisfaction. He
saw what he, Christopher Coghlan
must do, according to his lights, his
personality. The decision hardened
in him. Dr. Fulton, watching, licked
gray lips, asked a question with his
faint eyebrows.

“But thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome, Counselor.”

Chris looked around, called, “Chico.
Oh, where the devil’s that Indian!
Chico.” Chico didn’t answer. “He beat
it. Moves like a shadow, that one.
Will you excuse me, Doctor?”

“Yes, indeed.”

Chris’s study opened from the bed-
room. He went in there, sat down to
his huge Provence table that served
as his desk; slid open its drawer,
took out a .38 automatic. He lay this
on the table—placed a sheet of note
paper carefully in the center of the
blotter, took his pen from its holder
and wrote:

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

OUT ON HIS FEET

“Dearest Beth: The course I chose
is ugly; but not as ugly as a trial
murder would have been. . . ."

Dear God, how trite it sounded. All
he wanted to do was state a fact,
give her one plain word instead of the
horror of silence, of never knowing
just what he had thought... but
words such as these had been written
so many times by so many fellows as
hopeless as he, they were worn out;
they stank of self-pity or melodrama.
“Sorry about Osborne," he wrote, “I
love you. Good-bye now. Chris." On
the wall beside him was a large mir-
ror with a deeply carved walnut
frame. He looked into it. Raised the
pistol, put the muzzle to his temple.
Clearly he felt how Chaos had won;
how this was nightmare; this, this
was the fundamental truth of the
world—naked might, an idiot's tale.

HRIS straightened the barrel of
the pistol. The door at his back
was open. Through this, reflected in
the mirror, he saw Chico, the slender
slant-eyed Indian. Chris saw only his
contorted dark face at first; and then
it was gone behind the form of Dr.
Fulton. Doctor Fulton's sharp black
beard pointed at the ceiling; his thin
neck was lost in the brown grip of
Chico’s slender hands; and every-
where, on tapestry and deep rug, all
about those two attached and tranced
figures, straining, unmoving, every-
where lived the awful silence of doom.
Chris did not move. He gazed
into the mirror. He watched a knife
float straight upward, point down,
formal, as for an Aztec ceremonial.
He saw Chico’s eyes, blaze wide open,
his white teeth tear the gloom in a
grin of pure joy, and widen. The
pistol fell from Coghlan's hand. Its
thump on the table broke the spell.
Chris raised his voice in a shout of
warning. In the hesitation that this
sent to Chico's slender arm, Chris ran
in there and with a terrible blow un-
der the ear sent Chico falling and
rolling on the rug where he lay face
down, with a whimper like a dog who
has been lost. Dr. Fulton fell into
a chair and collapsed there as if his
clothes were empty.

Chico got his head up.
bleeding from the mouth. ,

“His knife," he gasped. “I am hide
there.’ He pointed at the curtains.

“What? What’s that?”

“His knife.” j

Chris picked Chico up; lay him
carefully upon the touseled bed. “His
knife, Chico?” a x

“He take it out so,” Chico said.
“He look. I know what he do. I
see all. He mean to hide that knife.”

“Then he brought it with him?”

Chris looked down at Dr. George
Searles Fulton. “You killed Osborne
with that knife?” emm

*With that knife," Dr. Fulton said.

*But why did you bring it here?"

*[ meant to throw it away—to hide
it—no opportunity presented itself."

Both of them, no, all three of them,
had been within a second of death.
It added to them. Doctor Fulton
whispered: *Could I have a drink?"
and as Coghlan handed it to him:
“Thank you, Counselor."

*You're quite weleome."

Dr. Fulton whispered: *Will you
join me?" x

“What? No, Doctor, no." Chris
was consulting that new conviction
in himself: “No,” he said, “I’m off
it.’ And he nodded his head.

“Perhaps that’s better—for your
sort.”

“In a minute,” Chris went on,
thinking it out, “I’d have been dead
by my own hand, and in there would
lay my confession of your murder and
in here in my blood-stained bed the
D.A.d been delighted to find your
plood-stained knife. Thank you, God.
Thank you, Chico.

Chico stirred slightly. “Nothing,”
he said.

*But how did you know I'd drawn
a blank," Chris asked.

He was

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

Dr. Fulton smoothed his beard. *I
didn’t. I came here to borrow a
thousand to get away on. I didn’t
even know you’d quarreled with Os-
borne. Oh, I’ve hated that louse for
years. I did for him, at last. I
hid till he’d staggered off to bed, the
last of you drunks had gone home;
but I woke him first. . . . He knew
who I was; he knew I knew he had
reported an operation that was...”
he grinned a sadistic remembering
grin—“that was an unsuccessful op-
eration.” Dr. Fulton drank again.
His voice was stronger. He straight-
ened in his chair. He said: “I came
here for money. Before I could ask
I saw your agitation. Then I won-
dered. I waited. I needed only to
wait. You told me plenty and as you
told me I saw a better way out for
me than flight."

“But that blood on the pillow. It
is blood!”

“I don't know about that—you see
you left fairly early—in your car
with Beth Harriman."

**Fairly early," Chris frowned.
He erossed to pick up the pillow. He
tried to remember. A door slammed
loudly, he whirled and ran to his
study door. It was closed, locked.
Dr. Fulton was in there.

As he ran his shoulder against the
panels the doorbell rang and rang
again. Chico, weak but dutiful,
started for the entrance. Before he’d
left the room Brandon, the district
attorney, and two dicks—bulked in.

The D. A. had a sharp high voice.
He was a youngish man, blond, long-
faced.

“Hello, Coghlan! Where have you
hidden Fulton? Don't stall— Oh,
he’s here; he was followed. You're
going to turn him over to us now—
or you're going to the can, Coghlan,
for harboring . . ."

In the library something happened.
An explosion happened. The going-
off of a .38 calibre cartridge and the
entrance of its pointed nose into the
eardrum of Dr. Fulton.

A few minutes later, the door a
splintered wreck, Chris was saying:
*Where Fulton's gone there probably
aren' any drunken lawyers. But,
Brandon, I've climbed on the well-
known water wagon. Now," he wise-
cracked as his spirits soared, “now,
Brandon, you won't convict anybody."
And he laughed in his old careless

way.
"Taking orders already? Well,
well" It was Brandon's turn to

laugh. As he laughed the detectives
presumed to laugh also. Coghlan's
handsome face relaxed; puzzlement
and foreboding rode his brow again.

“What is it?" he begged to know.
*What are you talking about."

*Why Beth Harriman! The beauti-
ful and energetie lady who so hon-
ored you last night—who——-say, listen
it's no secret, old man; it's in the
papers—Rosie, show him that Journal
you have. I want to congratulate you,
we all do... ."

Brandon looked at the brandy bot-
tle He looked at Chico; Chico ran
like an Aztec for glasses and ice while
Coghlan stared at a headline that
said he'd smashed his well-known im-
ported automobile near West 178th
Street speeding back from Ardsley-
on-Hudson where he had been united
in marriage with that beautiful, very
prominent society girl, and so forth,
who had suffered a cut on the hand—
windshield—and so the honeymoon to
Bermuda was postponed till next Sat-
urday. . . ."

“Oh, God," Chris said, as the Dis-
trict Attorney choked and splattered
brandy in all directions: “I knew I’d
forgotten something!” And he reached
for a glass, too; but there wasn’t
any there, which reminded him that
he was on the wagon. The telephone
bell was ringing, anyway. It seemed
to ring in an insistent sort of way.

“There’s a good boy," the D. A.
said. “Now you tell her where the so-
and-so you've been all this long day.
That's how it is now, my boy!”

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(Continued from page 19)

behind such insensate vandalism; and
only a lunatie acts without motive."

“On the contrary,” said Matthew
Kelton, “no man has stronger reasons
than the man who has lost his reason.
He is driven to do strange and dread-
ful deeds by an imperious, pitiless
logic. You see, he knows he is right
though all the world may say he is
wrong. Suppose he believes that he is
responsible for the sins of mankind
and must sacrifice himself to save the
human race from destruction. What
does he do? Well, one poor fellow
some years ago crucified himself in
Central Park. He was indignant when
they took him down and saved his
life. He had done the right thing—
as he saw it. There was a powerful
reason behind his act.”

“What reason had that scoundrel
for destroying our property," asked
General Bannerman. “Spite?”

“Possibly,” said Kelton. “That is,
if we three have, to use your phrase,
a common enemy.”

“Looks like it,” said Abernathy.

Matthew Kelton shook his white
head.

"I cannot believe in this common
enemy,” he said. “Why should we
have a common enemy when we have
so little in common? Our paths have
crossed but seldom in the present, and
never, I think, in the past. You, Gen-
eral, have spent most of your life
abroad, haven’t you?”

“Quite so.”

“And you, Squire, have always
lived here in Mallow.” d

"That's right."

“And I," said Kelton, “have spent
a rather quiet life in my laboratory
in New York City and my rose gar-
den at Oyster Bay, until I moved
here three years ago. I must confess
I can see no direct links between the
soldier, the farmer and the.chemist."

"Can't, myself," said the General.

“Nor can I,” said the Squire.

“The common denominator, then,
averred Kelton, “must be in this
man’s mind.”

“A warped and twisted mind, re-
member,” said Bannerman.

“Then we must look for a warped
and twisted motive,” said Kelton.
“And that takes us into the shadowy
realms of morbid psychology. I there-
fore think we should ask Dr. Clement
Canfield to help us.”

“Dr. Canfield?” said the General.
“Oh, yes, that’s the fellow who bought
the old Griggs place on Battle Hill.
Retired from active practice, hasn’t
he?”

“Yes,” said Kelton, “but in his time
he was the foremost alienist and
brain surgeon on the Pacific Coast.
His operations were medical classics.”

“Can we get him?” said Abernathy.

“Im sure we can," said Kelton.
“Tve always found him most obliging.
He takes a great interest in every-
thing affecting the community.”

“A dashed valuable ally for us,"
said the General. “Expert advice.
Heaven knows we need it. Will you
phone him, Kelton, and ask him to
come over?”

“Immediately,” said Matthew Kel-
ton. Presently he reported that Dr.
Canfield would come over directly.

”

Tq um eminent surgeon and psychi-
atrist joined them in twenty min-
utes. He was a well built man in the
forties, whose wise, professional face
bore a full beard. Kelton tersely told
him what had happened.

“You came to the right shop, gen-
tlemen,” said Dr. Canfield. “My field,
decidedly. Fact is, I had a case very
like this one out west. Young banker,
he was, a fine chap, liked and re-
spected by everybody. He seemed as
sane as any of us sitting here. He
did his work efficiently, and cut quite
a figure in society; but, periodically,
his mind jumped the tracks, and
then—"

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Hee three listeners leaned toward
im.

“And then,” pursued Dr. Canfield,
*he became as dangerous as a cobra."

“In what way?” asked Kelton.

“He destroyed things,” replied Dr.
Canfield.

“What things?”

“It began,” said the doctor, “in a
relatively trivial way. A statue of
Venus in the sunken garden of an
estate was found one morning thrown
down and mutilated with a chisel.
Hoodlums, we all thought. Then a
rock was hurled through the stained
glass window of a church, a window
considered one of the finest in the
country. Soon after that an attempt
was made to burn down the private
library of a wealthy man which con-
tained many priceless old books and
objets d'art. I sensed a connection be-
tween the crimes; but neither I, nor
anybody, suspected that they were
done by Gabriel Fenwick—"

“What happened next?" asked Kel-
ton.

“Important for us to know," put in
Bannerman. *Marked similarity be-
tween the two cases. Same pattern.
Our man may do the same thing. ...
What did Fenwick do?"

*He did not stop at destroying—
things," said the doctor, gravely.

“Good Lord," cried Abernathy, “do
you mean he turned killer?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Canfield. “There
was a girl, an unusually beautiful
girl—and, well, the details aren’t nice.
Gabriel Fenwick was caught red-
handed, literally red-handed, beside
her battered body.”

“What did they do to him?” asked
Bannerman.

“On my testimony he was adjudged
insane,” Dr. Canfield told them. “He
was put away in a place where he can
do no more harm.”

“He may have escaped,” said Aber-
nathy.

"I'm positive he has not," said Dr.
Canfield.

* Positive?"

“Absolutely,” Dr. Canfield said,
“Ive kept in close touch with the
case. I had more than a scientific in-
terest in it. You see, poor Fenwick
was my oldest and best friend.”

“A flower, a dog, a picture,” mused
Matthew Kelton, “and next? Gentle-
men, we must find that man."

“And soon," said Bannerman, “Doc-
tor, how can we tell him when we see

him?”

“You can't, said Dr. Canfield.
“Unfortunately our man will bear
no outward and visible signs of his
sinister nature. Nor will his conduct
or conversation betray him. I’m
considered an expert in such matters,
and I knew Gabriel Fenwick inti-
mately, but I never suspected his
condition, nor would I have believed
he was guilty had he not been caught
in the act. So, our quarry may be—
anybody. He may be you—or you—
or you—"

His finger stabbed at the three men
in turn.

*We must warn everybody in the
county to be on their guard," Squire
Abernathy declared.

“Against whom? Against what?"
snapped Bannerman. “We don't know
the man. We don't know how or
where or when he'll strike next. Why
throw the whole countryside into a
panie, and make the wretch wary?"

“I agree with Abernathy,” Kelton
said. “We should issue a warning.
It’s a forlorn hope, I grant you; but
in this desperate emergency we must
grasp at every straw.”

“Then,” said the Squire, “PI get
Jennings of the Mallow Sentinel to
plaster this affair all over his front
page tomorrow.”

General Bannerman considered a
moment.

“Very well,” he said, “We need all
the weapons we can get. How about
offering a reward?”

“Sound idea,” approved Kelton.

“Make it ten thousand dollars,”
said the General. “Pl underwrite
that.”

“TIl subscribe my share,” said the
Squire.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

“And so wil I," said Kelton.

“Let’s split it four ways,” said Dr.
Canfield. “I want to be in this, too.”

“Done!” said Abernathy. “If any-
body has a scrap of evidence or the
shred of a clue, money will make
them talk. Well cover the county
with reward broadsides.”

“We did all that out West,” said
Dr. Canfield, somberly. “It didn't stop
Fenwick.”

Kelton paced the porch.

“Tf we could only anticipate what
he may do,” he said.

“How can we?” General Banner-
man spoke testily. “We’re sane, pre-
sumably. We know right from wrong.
Understand cause and effect. How
can a man of sense predict what a
man without sense will do?”

“But I tell you our man has a pur-
pose, a motive,” asserted Kelton, dog-
gedly. “A pattern, you yourself said,
General. For look! He has not run
amuck and broken blindly whatever
came first to his hand. No, each time
he sought out and destroyed one
single, perfect, beautiful thing. He
must have a reason, perverted if you
will, but a reason none the less.”

Mrs. Kelton came out of the house.

“Lunch is ready,” she announced.
“Perhaps you gentlemen will stay—"

“Im sorry, but I've an engage-
ment," said the General.

“Thanks,” said the Squire, “but I
must hustle right down to the village
and see about getting out those re-
ward posters."

“Will you stay, Dr. Canfield?”
asked Kelton.

*Delighted to lunch with you," said
the doctor.

General Bannerman ‘and Squire
Abernathy left, after arranging to
have another conference at the Gen-
eral’s home that evening.

s E call it lunch,” said Mrs. Kel-

ton to the doctor, "but it's
really dinner, I guess. We're still old-
fashioned enough, Matt and I, to take
our chief meal in the middle of the
day."

“Then Im in luck," laughed Dr.
Canfield. *I'm blessed with an old-
fashioned appetite.”

“Were having a roast chicken,"
said Mrs. Kelton, as they sat down
at the dining-room table. "Raised on
our own place."

“Excellent,” said Dr. Canfield.

“Perhaps you wouldn't mind carv-
ing, Doctor," said Matthew Kelton.
“I’ve a touch of neuritis, in my arms,
and the art of carving (for it is an
art) is a closed book to Mrs. Kelton."

“PII do my best," promised Dr.
Canfield, picking up the carving
knife. “Light or dark, Mrs. Kelton?”

*A little of each, if you please,
Doctor."

Dr. Canfield eyed the bird medita-
tively, and then began slowly to carve.

“Oh, I am sorry,” he exclaimed.
*Must have struck a bone."

The carving knife had slipped from
his hand and fallen to the floor. He
bent and retrieved it.

“That’s quite all right, Doctor,"
said Mrs. Kelton. “You should see
the hash I make of the carving job."

Dr. Canfield attacked the chicken
again, and managed to get off several
thick pieces.

“I am making rather a botch of it,”
he said cheerfully. He twisted loose
a leg. “Well, this is one case where
the end justified the means."

They discussed roses for a time,
and then Kelton said:

“Tell me, Doctor, in confidence, is
it possible that either Bannerman or
Abernathy could be the man we're
after?"

“Possible, oh, yes," said Canfield.

“Those footprints were made by a
big man," remarked Kelton. “The
Squire and the General are both big
men. And both have a reputation for
eccentricity. Still they seem so solid,
so sensible—"

“They’re good fellows. I like them

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

both," said Dr. Canfield. *But, Kel-
ton, my experience has taught me
that the surface of a man means noth-
ing."

*Do you suspect either of them?"
inquired Kelton.

“I suspect everybody," said the
doctor, soberly.

“Even me?" smiled Mrs. Kelton.

"[ said ‘everybody’,” replied Dr.
Canfield.

“But,” said Kelton, as he helped the
doctor to home-made elderberry wine,
“it’s hard for me to imagine Aber-
nathy killing a valuable dog he was
extremely fond of, or Bannerman
damaging a favorite picture.”

“It was equally hard to imagine
Gabriel Fenwick harming the girl to
whom he was engaged,” said Dr. Can-
field, drily.

They talked a while after lunch,
about the mental condition of the man
who had shattered the rose, and Kel-
ton got lost in a maze of technical-
ities. Then Dr. Canfield departed, and
Matthew Kelton sat on his porch and
smoked many thoughtful pipes. It
was late in the afternoon when a
gangling figure in overalls ap-
proached the porch and broke in on
Kelton’s speculations. He recognized
his visitor as Charley Sessions, the
local milkman.

“Well, Charley,” said Kelton,
“what can I do for you?”

“I seen them notices,” said Charley.
“About the ten thousand dollars, I
mean—”

“Yes?” said Kelton. “You know
something?” E

*"Taint much, I guess," said
Charley.

“Tell me, anyhow,” directed Kel-
ton.

*Well, Mr. Kelton," said Charley
in his high drawl, “I was out deliv-
erin on my milk route, like as al-
ways, this mornin' and as I was
a-comin' down Red Coat Lane from
the old Griggs place I seen a man
a-walkin up the lane. Thinks I,
*You're out mighty early. Now who
can you be?’—but I never did find
out because when he seen me he dove
all of suddent into the bushes and
scuttled away like a rabbit. Thinks
—That’s a funny thing for a fella
to do’ so I says to myself—”

“You did not recognize him then,”
interrupted Kelton.

“No, sir. It was before sun-up and
it’s sort of dark and spooky in that
lane anyhow. There was just a little
gray light and it all happened so quick
I didn’t get a good look at him—”

“Can you describe him?”

Charley scratched his head.

“Well, he was a man—not big and
yet not little—but bigger than he
was little—I think—and I think he
had on dark clothes like a under-
taker wears, but I couldn't swear to
that—and I think his face was black
—like a fella in a minstrel show—”

“Burnt cork,” muttered Kelton. “An
old war-time trick. A white face shows
in the moonlight—”

“Huh?” said Charley.

“Never mind.”

“Can I have the ten thousand dol-
lars now?” asked Charley.

Kelton chuckled.

“Not yet awhile,” he said. “If your
information leads to anything, you’ll
get a fair share of the reward, I
guarantee that.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kelton,” said
Charley, and turned to go. Near the
gate he stopped, and said—

“Somethin’ else I just thought of.”

“What?” asked Kelton.

“Taint none of my business, and
mebbe it has nothin’ to do with
nothin’, but I got an idee that Dr.
Canfield ain’t the only one who lives
up there in the old Griggs place.”

“Nonsense, Charley,” said Kelton.
“Dr. Canfield lives all alone. I know.
I've visited him often.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Charley. “But
yesterday mornin’ I hear two voices

(Please turn to page 78)

CHEWING GU

PEPPERMINT FLAVOR

DOuvrL

THE DOCTOR AND THE LUNATIC

in that house, a high one and a low

“What were they saying?”

“I couldn't make out,” said Charley.
“But if there wasn’t two men there,
I’m a Chinaman; and, Mr. Kelton,
that ain’t the first time I’ve heard
those two voices. No, sir.”

“Interesting,” commented Kelton.
“Charley, don’t tell anybody else
what you’ve just told me.”

“Do I get the ten thousand dol-
lars?” said Charley.

“We'll see about that later," said
Kelton. “Run along now and keep
your mouth shut.”

“Yes, sir,’ said Charley,
slouched away.

ATTHEW KELTON jumped

into his car and drove swiftly
along the winding roads till he came
to Red Coat lane. He turned into it,
and mounting Battle Hill, reached
the old Griggs place with its sprawl-
ing mansion, relic of the days when
American architecture reached its
lowest ebb, congeries of cupolas, bulg-
ing bay-windows, unwarranted ver
andas hideous with jig-saw fretwork.
This was the house Dr. Canfield had
bought when he moved to_ Mallow
some fifteen months before. It was a
sagging, unkempt shell of a house
when he took it, but a corps of work-
men, brought from Albany to the
disgust of the local contractors, had
made it ship-shape and habitable,
without, however, adding anything to
the charm of its exterior.

Kelton rang the bell and Dr. Can-
field came to the door. 1

“Glad to see you, Kelton,” he said,
cordially. “You have news. I can
tell that. Well, sit down and tell me."

“PII come straight to the point,"
said Matthew Kelton. “Doctor Can-
field, have you another person living
in this house?” à

“Dr, Canfield looked back steadily
at Kelton.

«You’ve guessed my secret,” he
said, quietly. “I supposed that sooner
or later it was bound to come out. I
might as well tell you the story now.”

“I think you don't have to tell me
who your prisoner is," said Kelton.

“No, I don't, said Dr. Canfield.
* And let me tell you, Kelton, I'm not
ashamed of what I've done. I could
not bear to see poor Fenwick shut
away in some horrible institution,
when I could take care of him. I've
broken no law. The courts committed
him to my care. I'm responsible for
him, legally, and morally, too—”

*Morally? What do you mean?"
Kelton asked.

“I was driving the car when Fen-
wick was cracked up," said the doc-
tor. “Pd had a few drinks. If Pd
been stone sober, I might have
averted the accident. I'm only trying
to make what poor amends I can—”

“Let me ask you another blunt
question, Doctor," said Kelton.

and

“Go ahead. I’ve nothing to con-
ceal." K

“Was Gabriel Fenwick out last
night?”

“I give you my word, Kelton, he
did not leave this house last night—
or at any time since he came here,”
said Dr. Canfield. i

“He might have slipped out with-
out your knowledge,” said Kelton.

“Not possible,” said Dr. Canfield.

“I must be sure of that," said Kel-
ton.

“Very well,” said the doctor, “Let
your own eyes convince you. Wait
here, please. I'll go up and tell Fen-
wick you want to see him. An un-
expected visitor might bring on one
of his attacks."

Kelton waited in the living-room
among the stolid and unshapely furn-
iture. He heard the doctor's tread on
the stairs, and the clang of a steel
door. Presently Dr. Canfield called
down.

“You can come up now, Kelton.”

Dr. Canfield met him at the head
of the stairs.

(Continued from page 77)

“The poor chap lives in here,” he
said indicating a door. “I had a large
room made escape-proof. Steel walls,
barred windows, and look at that
door—”

Kelton examined the door.

“Why, it’s like the door of a bank
vault,” he said.

“That is precisely what it is,” said
Dr. Canfield. “It can only be opened
from the outside by an intricate com-
bination; and I am the only man alive
who knows that combination.”

“But the window—” began Kelton.

“You'll see,” said Dr. Canfield, and
started to manipulate the dials on
the massive, metal door. In two min-
utes it swung open. Kelton stepped
into a spacious room, plainly but
comfortably furnished with leather
easy chairs, a refectory table, and
a four-poster bed. On the bed he saw
a man, asleep. The face of the sleep-
ing man was an unusually handsome
and sensitive face in spite of its pal-
lor and emaciation.

t “May I wake him?” whispered Kel-
on.

“No use trying,” said Dr. Canfield.
“I found him like this in one of
his stupors. They’re characteristic
of his malady, you know. He’ll sleep
like this for seven or eight hours,
and nothing can rouse him. So ex-
amine the room if you want to. Sat-
isfy yourself that Fenwick could not
have committed last night’s crimes.”

Carefully and without haste, Mat-
thew Kelton made a thorough exami-
nation of the room. He tapped walls,
floors, ceiling and felt the steel be-
neath his knuckles. He tested every
heavy bar at every window. They
were firm and showed no marks as
they must have had they been tam-
pered with.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, finally, “I
don’t see how a man could get out
of this room.”

“Then,” said Dr. Canfield, as he
closed the steel door after them and
reset the combination, “we must look
elsewhere for our criminal.”

“Yes,” conceded Kelton, “we must
look elsewhere.”

Dr. Canfield escorted him to his
car.

“Be sure to phone me if anything
breaks,” said the doctor. “If I’m
needed, ring me up no matter what
the hour is.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Kelton,
absently. “Good-bye.”

Thrice, though he drove home at
a snail's pace, Kelton nearly went off
the road; for his mind's eye was foc-
used on a whirling kaleidoscope of
conflicting facts, and he was as be-
wildered by what he saw as if he
were mentally color-blind. Fenwick
could not get out. But he must have
done so. And if he got out once, he
could get out again.

At his evening meal he was pre-
occupied.

*Now, Matt dear, eat your ham,"
his wife adjured him. “It’s already
sliced. No carving to do. I'm afraid
I wasn’t very polite to Dr. Canfield,
laughing at the way he carved that
chicken.”

“Oh,

”

“Eh? What?” said Kelton.
yes. He did rather bungle it, didn’t
he?"

He rose suddenly from the table.

“Where are you going, Matt?"
asked his wife.

"I must see Bannerman and Aber-
nathy," said Kelton. “At once."

N hour later, just as the moon

was rising, three men stood in a

smell copse by the side of the turn-
ike.

*Wild goose chase," growled Ban-
nerman.

“Take it easy, General," said Aber-
nathy, in a low voice.

*[ told you," said Kelton in barely
audible tones, *that we must keep our
mouths tight shut and our eyes wide
open."

They waited there, in silence their
eyes trained on the spot where the

lane joined the main road. Long
hours passed, and the moon rose
higher. Then Abernathy's hand

gripped Kelton's arm, and he said,
close to Kelton's ear—

“Ssssh! Someone is coming down
Red Coat Lane."

A man came down the lane, walking
fast, and started down the turn-pike.
He was a black blot on the moon-lit
road. They had seen his cap, his
clothes, his face were all black. Cau-
tiously, at a distance, the three
watchers followed him.

OR more than a mile they were

able to keep the man in black in
sight; then, rounding a sharp bend,
they lost him.

*He's left the road," said Banner-
man.

“Quick, Squire, tell me," said Kel-

ton, tensely. “Who lives around
here?"
*Colonial house on right, Judge

Next place, two brothers
named Leslie. Beyond that is my
farm," said Abernathy. “And back
there in the woods is a bungalow—”
“Whose?”
“Actress from New York has it for
the Summer—named Lily Price—”

“Come,” commanded Kelton. They
followed him along the ragged wood-
road that led to the bungalow. As
they came toward it they heard a
scream that was pinched off short.
Kelton bounded into the bungalow,
with the other men at his heels. By
the brightness of the moon they saw
the man in black bending over a
figure in white. His hands gripped
the woman’s throat. Seeing them he
sprang up, snarling, and hurled him-
self at them. Abernathy’s big fist
shot out, landed flush on the man’s
chin, and he crumpled to the floor.
Kelton switched on the lights.

“Take the lady into the bedroom,
General" he said. She's fainted,
but, thank heaven, she's not seriously
hurt."

“Right,” said Bannerman, and then,
as he picked up the girl, “Jove, she's
a beauty!”

“You brought rope, Squire,” said
Kelton.

“Yes.”

“Then tie up that man before he
comes to.”

Abernathy bound the man in black
hand and foot.

“It’s Fenwick, of course,” he said.

“Yes,” said Kelton, “It’s Gabriel
Fenwick.”

“How did he get out?” asked Aber-
nathy.

“He didn’t,” said Kelton. “He was
never in. Look closer, Squire.”

Abernathy bent over the uncon-
scious man.

“But—Kelton,” he cried, “this is
Dr. Canfield!”

“No,” said Matthew Kelton, “the
real Dr. Canfield is locked up in that
old house on Battle Hill, as sane as
he ever was. We'l crash through
those steel walls and set him free as
soon as he comes out of his drugged
sleep.”

Bannerman joined them.

“Miss Price is all right,” he said.
“She’s quite calm now. A brave little
woman—”

“You see,” explained Kelton, while
they were waiting for the police,” the
story we know about Fenwick and
Canfield was accurate—up to a cer-
tain point. Canfield did bring Fen-
wick to this out-of-the-way place to
take care of him; but Fenwick with
the craftiness of his kind, managed,
somehow, to reverse the roles, and the
patient became the physician, the cap-
tor became the captive . . ."

*But what first gave you the idea
that the man we knew as Canfield
was not the doctor?" asked General
Bannerman.

“Just a little mistake he made at
lunch,” said Matthew Kelton. “Did
you ever see a surgeon who couldn’t
carve?”

Harkness.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

THE DUCHESS SPOTS A KILLER

building, Spike said, “well, how about
it?”

I thought for a minute. “The son’s
alibi was too damned pat.”

“Did that strike you, too?” Spike
asked quickly.

“It struck me right between the
eyes. How about you?’

“It practically knocked me for a
loop. Soon as he began to beef about
three of the most prominent men in
the city, I tumbled.”

I took Katie’s arm as we started to
cross the street to the City Hall.
She didn’t exactly pull away from
me, but she kept her distance.

“Are you two nitwits suggesting,”
she asked witheringly, “that that little
man killed his father?”

Spike slapped her on the back, not
gently. “Nice work, Duchess. How’d
you ever tumble? I tell you, kid. You
string along with us and you'll be a
reporter some day."

“Some day!” she retorted. “String
along with you and I'll get scooped
every day.”

“You know all the by-God answers,
don’t you?” Spike jeered.

“Most of them,” Katie flashed.
“But seriously. You don’t really
think Rosenblatt killed his father, do
you? Good heavens, what was his
motive?”

“A fortune in ice.”

“Nonsense!” the Duchess snapped.
“The old man must have been close
to seventy. Why kill him? The son
was bound to come into the diamonds
before long anyway.”

“Are you quite sure of that,
Duchess? Perhaps the old guy had
cut the son out of his will.”

“All right, all right,” Katie said
wearily. “Have it your way. You
usually do and you’re usually wrong.”

We went into the press room and
found Jake Morris still at the desk,
riffing the cards. Spike and Katie
hit their telephones with a flash and
I sat down across from Jake.

“Dead?” Jake asked.

“Like a mackerel.”

“Good.”

I glanced at him. His fat, slightly
greasy face had the greenish-yellow
tinge of a parsnip. And I thought:
A reporter's life isn't all gin and
ginger ale when we have to associate
with worms like Jake Morris.

“Friend of yours, huh?" I said.

*We was pardners in the diamond
racket for fifteen years."

*Sure. I remember now. You
pulled out three or four years ago
and started writing bail bonds. Tell
me, Jake. How many times did you
have to hit him?"

“To kill him, you mean?"

“Yeg”

Jake chuckled in that offensive way
he has, as though something were
lodged in his throat, “Oh, eight or
ten times, I guess.” He put the cards
down. “Tell me about it.”

I told him the story briefly and

asked: “What do you think of his
son?”
“Newman? A shyster and a rat.”

“Think he may have had a hand
in it?”

“Me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he
had both feet in it. Hed cut his
grandmother’s throat for four bits,
that guy.”

“He has an alibi.”

“Sure. So did Hauptmann.”

KATE and Spike joined us after a
while and we sat around talking
over the murder. Willie Blake came
in finally with word that Frank Leo-
pold was in the dicks’ office. The
jeweler swore he had made no ap-
pointment with Rosenblatt.

“He has four clerks in his estab-
lishment,” Willie told us, “and he
says they’ll all testify he was in the
store at three o'clock. He's clear, I
guess. Somebody evidently used his
name to make an appointment, not
knowing he and Rosenblatt were at
outs."

Pete Zerker came in a few minutes
later. “Newman Rosenblatt is get-

The MYSTERY Maaazine. Julu. 1935

(Continued from page 24)

ting an order to open his old man's
safety deposit box. Newman says
the loss may run better than a hun-
dred thousand dollars."

And that was that—for a while.

“{MOME on, Spike" I suggested.

*Let's go out and get a load of
Java. You have plenty of time be-
fore the first run."

We crossed the street to Joe's lunch
room and went inside. There was a
fellow sitting at the counter with a
eup of coffee in one hand and a wedge
of pie in the other. He wore a beau-
tiful mauve-gray camel's-hair over-

coat.

“Well!” Spike bellowed abruptly.
“My friend, the burglar.”

The fellow looked up. “Hello, pal,”
he said cheerfully. "How's the news-
paper racket?”

“Great—pal,’’ Spike
“How’s the prowl racket?”

“Not so bad, not so bad.”

“Nice coat you picked up there.”

retorted.

“Yeah,” Dopey McClain agreed,
squirming. “Quite a coat, pal.”

“Take it off!”

“Huh?”

“T said, take it off.”

“You ain’t goin’ to snag the coat
off a poor guy’s back, are you,” Dopey
pleaded.

“Watch me!”

Spike reached for him.

“Wait! Wait” Dopey dropped his
coffee and pie and reached for his
pockets. “Got a few knick-knacks.
Cigarettes, one thing ’n another."

*My cigarettes" Spike snorted.

He caught hold of the coat’s lapels
and peeled the garment neatly off
Dopey’s back. He climbed into it,
shrugged the padded shoulders into
place and sat down on a stool two
removed from the burglar.

“And I thought you was my pal,”
Dopey moaned.

“Yeah? Maybe I thought the same
about you. So what?”

Dopey shrugged, grinned. “The
chow’s on me, boys. Eat up.”

Well, the burglar paid for our cof-
fee, and we told him to keep out of
jail and strolled back to the press
room.

Pete Zerker and Willie Blake, the
afternoon paper men, had seen their
sheet to bed and gone home. Katie
was alone and she looked pretty
white. I think she was having a
hard time forgetting Al Rosenblatt’s
bashed and bloody head.

“Look, Spike,” I said. “You got a
bottle of whiskey in your locker. Give
the child a shot.”

“Whiskey for this infant? Mother’s
milk is more in her line.”

I went over to Spike’s locker and
brought the Duchess a drink. She
accepted it wordlessly. For an in-
stant her fine blue eyes met mine
and I felt my heart flutter as it had
of late whenever she lodked at me.
Then she downed her drink and said:

“Thanks—darling.”

And I said, “You’re not any too
damned _ welcome—dear!”

And I hated her again, and wished
she'd go back where she belonged,
to reporting golden weddings and
births of triplets.

I turned away and saw Spike
standing in the center of the room,
his hands thrust in the pockets of
his overcoat, a look of shocked sur-
prise on his homely face.

*Spill it, guy," I ordered.

He slowly withdrew his right hand
from his pocket. He opened it and
stared at a neat gold watch. I
laughed.

“Your dinger is also a pickpocket.
Quite an accomplished young man.”

“But not much of a crap shooter,”
Katie said.

“Now what?” asked Spike. “If I
turn it in and tell where I got it,
it means the Big House for my pal,
the burglar. On the other hand, if
I keep it and somebody recognizes
it »

“Whoever lost it will beef to the
cops,” I pointed out. “Watch the

reports and mail it back anonymously
to the owner. How's that?"

Spike sighed. “Oh, that's oke, I
guess," he said sadly. “But it's a
hell of a swell watch."

Katie had stiffened a little. “May
I see it?" she asked.

She took the ticker and held it out
in the palm of her hand. It was a
beautiful hand, with slender, taper-
ing fingers. I was much more inter-
ested in it than in the watch. I saw
her turn the latter over and look at
the engraving on the back. Even
then I didn't tumble, for it was per-
haps the first time I'd ever noticed
how lovely Katie's hands are.

The Duchess returned the ticker
and stood looking from Spike to me.
Her lips curled with a fine contempt.

“Just a pair of bright reporters,"
she said scathingly. *You'll go a long
way, you two—in the wrong direc-

tion."
“All right, Duchess!” Spike
snapped. “Commence!” ý
“Look at the watch.”
"I've looked at it. I think it's a

swell watch. What's the add? Kick
in, Duchess?"

“Look at it again."

"You want me to get eye-strain?
Spill it, kid!”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” Katie
retorted contemptously, “that that
watch is a twin of the one Pete Moran
took out of old Mr. Rosenblatt’s vest
pocket?”

Spike looked at the watch, shrug-
ging. “And so?” he sneered. “Must
I get into a lather over it? Sister,
aren’t you bright enough to know
that there are probably a thousand
tickers just like this scattered over the
city?”

Katie asked, heavily sarcastic:
“With the initials A.Z.R. engraved
in block letters on the case?”

“Huh?” Spike gulped. “Whazat?”

I gulped myself as I tore the watch
out of Spike’s fingers and stared at

it.

“My God, Katie, you’re right!”

“Thank you. Had you suspected I
didn’t know my alphabet?”

Spike sat down weakly, as though
some one had stuck a pin in him
and let out all his air. I sat down
too, feeling suddenly faint. Only
Katie remained placid, looking from
Spike to me, smiling her cool and
imperturbable smile. After several
minutes Spike said feebly:

“Duchess, you better tell us. We
haven’t got brains enough to figure
it out for ourselves. Shoot, kid!”

The Duchess bowed. Was she en-
joying herself at our expense, or was
she?

“Stop me whenever you think I’m
wrong,” she said quietly. “That
watch belonged to Mr. Rosenblatt and
was in his pocket when he was mur-
dered. Right?”

“So right, Duchess, I’m nauseated
to think how dumb I am,” Spike said
sadly.

“The watch which Pete Moran
found in the murdered man’s_vest
pocket was prepared by the murderer,
set at 3:01, and the back caved in
and the watch stopped at that hour.
Correct?”

“Yes, Duchess.” My voice was
humble and I didn’t care.

“The reason?” Katie went on. “To
fix the time of death later than the
actual crime. Why? So the mur-
derer could get away and establish
an alibi. And the reason for the two
watches? The killer wanted to waste
no time in re-setting the old man’s
watch and stopping it. Then too,
if he had tried to jam the case at
the scene of the crime he might have
broken the crystal, dropped pieces
of it on the floor which he would’ve
had to gather up and put in the vest
pocket. So—he prepared the other
watch first, taking no chances. He
struck the old man down, beat the
life out of him, changed the watches
and got out of there in a hurry.”

Spike nodded slowly. “And my pal,

(Please turn to page 80)

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THE DUCHESS
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(Continued from page 79)

the burglar, bumped into this guy
on the street, before he had a chance
to get rid of the watch, and hoisted
it off him.”

“Or,” Katie said quickly, “your
pal, the burglar, is the murderer of
Al Rosenblatt.”

“Huh?” Spike gulped. “Naw. He’s
a pretty good egg, that burglar. He
wouldn’t kill anybody.”

“Besides,” I said, “the times are
wrong. What time did Jake say the
burglar. was released? Around 2:45,
wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that let’s him out,” I said.
“If he’d pulled the job, he’d have
stopped that other watch before 2:45.
So he’s in the clear.”

Spike sighed his relief. I think he
really liked that burglar; Spike al-
ways was one to admire a man with
nerye.

“He isn’t in the clear,” Katie
promptly contradicted. “Check up and
you'll probably find he has an iron-
clad alibi. Without a doubt he was
in the office of his lawyer at three
o’clock and has his lawyer and the
lawyer's eight partners to swear to
it.

“Wait a minute! Wait—a—min-
ute!" I exclaimed. “Do you suppose,
by any chance, your burglar's lawyer
is—"

*Newman Rosenblatt!" Spike cried.

The shock of that possibility
stopped us for a minute. Katie—and
you have to admire her calm—was
the first to speak. `

“Let’s stop supposing for a minute
or two. Let's put our feet on the
ground and get back to facts.”

“Such as?” Spike asked.

“Whoever conceived this crime
knew the make, the model, the ini-
tials and the type of engraving on
Rosenblatt’s watch. Furthermore,
whoever actually pulled the job must
have been a diamond buyer and must
have been known by Rosenblatt.
Otherwise the old. man would never
have opened his safe."

“That’s an angle," Spike cried hap-
pily. “My burglar, by no stretch of
the imagination, could ever have been
a diamond buyer. He's been a bur-
glar all his life, with maybe an oc-
casional flier at pocket-picking."

“That’s logical,” I agreed. ‘“Rosen-
blatt would never have opened his
safe for Dopey, so we've got to come
back to our original supposition.
Dopey lifted: the watch off the killer
who, we agree, must have been known
to Rosenblatt and must have been
familiar with Rosenblatt's watch.
And that person is—"

*Frank Leopold!" Spike and the
Duchess cried in unison.

“It’s a good bet," I nodded. “I hap-
pen to know that Leopold is on his
last legs financially. We carried a
story the other day that some of his
creditors had filed an action in bank-
ruptcy. Furthermore, we know that
Rosenblatt and Leopold had trouble
a couple of years ago. There’s an
additional motive.”

“What more do we want?” Spike
said.

“Oh, not much. Just enough evi-
dence to send him to the gallows.”

Katie asked: “Isn’t that Captain
Wallis’s job? When we tell him about
this watch—”

“Listen, Duchess!” Spike snorted.
“Who the hell does this watch belong
to?”

“Tt belongs, unquestionably, to the
estate of Al Rosenblatt.”

“Wrong as usual! It belongs, in-
fant, to the estate of Spike Kaylor,
not yet deceased. And as long as it
belongs to me the police aren’t going
to hear anything about it. Do you
gather that, Duchess, or shall I draw
a diagram?”

“You’re going to run
alone?”

"You're getting positively brilliant
in your deductions," Spike applauded.

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“Were going to run it down alone
because if we gave it to Wallis he'd
probably break the story for the af-
ternoon papers—after.we did all the
brain work."

“We?” the Duchess asked.

“Well, I'll admit you spotted the
ticker in the first place. And for that
minor assistance we'l keep you in
the corporation."

“Thanks. And where do we go
from here?"

My partner in crime looked dubi-
ous, but I said quickly: “We send
Spike to the dicks’ bureau to get the
number of the other watch. We wire
the number to the manufacturer and
find out what jeweler bought the
ticker in the first place. Then we go
to him and find out who he sold it
to. And then—"

*We put the finger on the killer
of Al Rosenblatt," Spike put in tri-
umphantly. *Oke, Pinky?"

“Correct. How's it sound, Duchess?
Simple, huh?"

“It sounds,” Katie said thought-
fully, *too damned simple."

Well, it did sound that way. But
the more we talked it over the more
we convinced ourselves we were on
the right track. Some one known to
Rosenblatt bought that watch, had
it engraved to match the diamond
merchant's, killed the old man and
planted it in his vest pocket. And
then, before the killer got rid of the
ticker he'd taken from Rosenblatt,
Dopey McClain bumped into him on
a crowded street and hoisted it.

There it was, take it or leave it.
We decided to take it. We decided we
were a cinch for a beautiful news
beat. And we couldn't help wonder-
ing, during the following twenty-two
hours, who we'd eventually Nt the
finger on. Frank Leopold? Newman
Rosenblatt? Or possibly Dopey Mc-
Clain?

HE following day was a long one,

because we didn’t get an answer to
our telegram until four in the after-
noon. And when it came, and Katie
and Spike and I went into a huddle
down the corridor, it was pretty dis-
appointing. It read:

“Watch sold Catalina Jewelry Com-
pany Los Angeles California.”

And Los Angeles was five hundred
miles away!

“This,” Spike groaned, “is getting
more tougher fast.”

“We could wire the Catalina Jew-
elry Company and find out—” Katie
checked herself. “No,” she said after
a moment, “that wouldn’t work. The
man who bought it gave an assumed
name with the initials A.Z.R. And
it’s ten to one the clerk in a big
establishment ^ wouldn't remember
him. Boys, I’m afraid we’re sunk.”

“Sunk, hell!” Spike rejoined. “It'll
take more’n a knock-down like this
to stop us. Go back in your corner
and sniff ammonia.”

“It’s becoming apparent, too,” I
remarked, “that we're dealing with
a pretty smart egg. He didn’t risk
buying the watch here. The jeweler
might remember engraving those ini-
tials, or the watch might be traced.
So he goes down to L. A. and buys
it from the biggest store in the city.
Yes, Spike, this is getting more
tougher fast.”

“But we aren’t sunk.
we're sunk!” Spike cried.
uh—”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“You go on, Pink.”

I didn’t know which way to go.
“Suppose we pass the buck to Katie.
How about it, Duchess?”

“I say take the watch to Captain
Wallis and let him—”

“And I say nuts!” Spike snapped.
“Look here! We got one card left,
and maybe it’s an ace in the hole.
My pal, the burglar.”

“Dopey? What could he do?”

“Now listen! It’s an eight to five
shot that Frank Leopold pulled the
job. We'll get his picture—he uses
a cut of his homely map in every ad
he runs—and see if Dopey can iden-
tify him as the guy whose watch he
hoisted. How’s that?”

“It’s lousy,” I said.

Damned if
“Only—

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

THE DUCHESS

SPOTS A

Katie asked: “Do you think this
burglar would be screwy enough to
admit he hoisted a watch?”

“Well,” Spike said reflectively, “he’s
pretty screwy.”

“But hardly that screwy,” I said.

“Well, you can’t rule out a guy
for trying. Let’s get hold of Dopey
and turn on the heat.”

*How'l you get hold of him?”

“Jake Morris.”

“Yeah? You didn’t get to first
base when you tried that yesterday.”

“We'll get to first base today. We'll
turn the heat on Jake."

“You think you can?”

“Listen, lug! I got enough on that
chiseler to put him away for twenty
years. He knows it, too. Remember
the Phelps case?"

Yes, I remembered the Phelps case,
and I knew Jake had been mixed up
in it. But I doubted if Spike had
anything on him. However, Jake was
plenty yellow; he bluffed easily and
perhaps Spike could slip over a fast
one on him. It was our only bet,
anyway.

“All right," I said. "Let's go over
and put the bee on Jake. Duchess,
you stay here. This may get rough."

“The rougher the better," Katie
said promptly.

“You still don't trust us, huh?"

*Just as far, darling, as I can see
you. Let's go."

We clipped a picture of Frank Le-
opold from an ad he'd run in Sun-
day's paper and ankled over to Jake's
office, which was on the fourth floor
of a building across the street from
the Hall. The big bail bond broker
was alone, his feet on his desk, a
cigar in his mouth, when we walked
in without the ceremony of knocking.
He looked surprised and not too
happy to see us.

*Hello, boys—and Miss
What you want?"

“Dopey McClain,” Spike told him.

“What you want with Dopey?
Ain’t you got that overcoat yet?
Well, if you ain’t, it’s your own fault.
You should never shoot crap in a
jail, Spike, and you should never
trust a burglar.”

“I got the overcoat, Jake. We want
to see Dopey on another matter.”

Jake grunted. “Sure. I know. You
got somethin’ up your sleeve, all right,
else why the delegation? And when
you get through with Dopey, he'll
maybe get cold dogs and skip his
bail. Yeah. An’ won’t that be nice
on me. Yeah.”

“Where you got him filed away?”
Spike demanded.

Jake shrugged, said heavily:
“I ain’t puttin’ out nothin’.”

“Oh, no?” Spike was getting mean,
and when Spike gets mean he makes
an angry police dog look like a sick
Pekingese. “All right, big ‘boy. If
you don’t put out, I put out. And
when T put out anything it'll be
about Bill Phelps and that paving
contract." Spike paused a moment to
let that sink in. “Take it or leave it,
you cheap yellow-faced, yellow-livered
crook.”

When you consider that Jake Mor-
ris would make two of Spike Kaylor,
they were harsh words. But Jake,
all at once, didn’t look so big. He
didn’t like the reference to Bill Phelps
and the paving contract. He didn’t
like it even a little bit.

“Can’t you tell me what you want
with Dopey?” he asked. “Maybe I—”

“Maybe you can go open an oyster!
Where you got Dopey holed up?”

Jake took a deep breath. “You
want I should call him up here?”

“You're certainly getting good at
riddles, Jake. You got the answer
right away.”

Sighing heavily, Jake took up the
telephone and called a number. He
asked for McClain, got him and told
him to come to his office at once. The
rest of us sighed too, with relief, and
sat down. We were over the first
hump.

Dopey McClain showed in about ten

Blayne.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

KILLER

minutes. He came in whistling cheer-
fully. His song died when he saw
Spike.

“Well! My pal. How are you, pal?
How’s the newspaper racket?”

“Take a chair, Dopey.”

“Sure, pal,” Dopey said pleasantly.
“Where’ll I take it?”

“Cut it, guy! Save your comedy
for the courtroom. Where’d you get
that watch?”

“Watch?”
happily.

“Ticker to you, Dopey. Where'd
you hoist it?"

“So help me, pal, I don’t know the
beef.”

“You'll know it, Dopey, if I turn
you in to the cops,” Spike said
significantly. “Haven’t you been told
it’s a felony in this state to pick
pockets?”

Dopey tried to square his shoulders
as he indignantly retorted: “Pal, I’m
a burglar. I ain’t no dip.”

“Says you!”

Spike whipped the watch out of
his pocket, hopped across the room,
held it in front of Dopey’s face.

“Ever see this before?”

“No. I never seen it before,” Dopey
vowed.

“And I suppose you'll deny, when
we get you on the witness stand, that
it wasn’t in the pocket of that over-
coat I stripped off you last night?”

“Tf it was in there, pal. I don’t
know how it got there.”

Spike put the watch away and took
out the picture of Frank Leopold.
“Ever see this guy before?” he de-
manded?”

Dopey scanned the picture. He
tweaked his long nose, scratched his
head. “Well, maybe yes, maybe no.
He does look kind of familiar.”

“Is this the guy you hoisted the
watch from?” Spike cried.

I held my breath. If Dopey said
yes, well—we were plenty hot on the
trail. But Dopey must have had
training as a congressman. He
couldn’t bring himself to say either
yes or no. He hemmed and hawed
for a minute or two, while Spike and
I sweat, and Katie perspired.

Then he pleaded: “Listen, pal!
Gimme the lay, will you? You can’t
expect me to admit—”

“Dopey, get this!” Spike ordered
ominously. “You’re on the spots guy,
and it’s a plenty tough spot. ` Prowling
icking pockets is one
thing. Murder, Dopey, murder—is
something else again. The guy you
stole this watch from killed that old
diamond merchant, Rosenblatt. You
probably saw it in the papers."

Dopey gulped. He tweaked his nose
furiously and the sweat began to roll
down his pale cheeks.

“Unless,” Spike barked, “you killed
him!”

Dopey sat down, not

houses and

PIKE waited a moment. The room
was so tense something had to snap.
And it was Dopey who snapped. Shak-
ing like a leaf in a wind, he rasped:
“T never killed nobody! I swear I
never, Spike! I hoisted that ticker
off Jake Morris while we was stand-
ing in the desk sergeant’s office!”

Well, it knocked the wind out of
us. Spike, because he was standing,
looked harder hit than anybody else.
He was limp, all at once, as he swung
around toward Jake Morris.

Jake’s yellow teeth were clamped
over his cigar. He was gripping the
corner of his desk with one soiled
paw. The other was thrust deep in

is pocket. His face was green and
his small ice-blue eyes glared viciously
at Dopey.

And all at once I knew that Dopey
had told the truth. I stood up.

“You should have ditched that
watch sooner, Jake," I said quietly.
“Though of course you thought you
were safe. You had a neat alibi,
very neat. At three o'clock you were
in the press room, and you had all
of us fellows to back you up. You

(Please turn to page 82)

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(Continued from page 81)

figured you'd pulled the perfect job.
And it would have been perfect, I
guess, if you'd known that Dopey
was a dip as well as a dinger. Did I
hear you tell Spike, a minute ago,
never to trust a burglar?"

“Pinky, you're nuts,” Jake said un-
steadily. *Me, I don't know what
you're talkin' about."

“Like hell you don't! I suppose you
went to Los Angeles two weeks ago
to see the races."

*Sure I did."

*And I suppose you didn't buy a
watch from the Catalina Jewelry
Company? And have it engraved
with the initials A.Z.R.? No, no, not
you. It was a couple of other guys.
It’s too bad, Jake, you didn't have
brains enough to file the number off
that watch. But then I guess you
were afraid to do that—it would have
looked too suspicious. Anyway, Jake,
the salesman who sold it to you is on
his way up here to identify you. And
you're going to have one hell of a lot
of explaining to do to Captain Wells.
Now do you want to come over with
us and start in on it?"

WELL, I never thought he'd do it.

I never thought he had the guts.
But all at once there it was—a big .45
automatie in Jake's shaking hand.

I took a step backward, and so did
Spike. I didn't like it, not any. A
frightened man is liable to do most
anything, if he's scared badly enough.
And Jake Morris was scared.

Scared, but not so dumb. He was
thinking just as fast as we were, and
maybe a shade faster. Without a
word, without any other threat than
the waving .45, he reached back with
his left hand and found the telephone.
He took a couple of steps toward us—
and we took a couple of steps back-
ward—and then he yanked the phone
out by the roots.

“I oughta kill you," Jake rasped,
*only it'd make too much noise. You
guys are gonna stay here—locked
in, see? And I'm lamming. By the
time you get outta here I'll be
in the clear"—and he added leer-
ing at us—'with a hundred grand
in ice."

I got a glimpse of Katie out of
the corner of my eye. She hadn't
moved from her chair. I could see
her face was dead white and I knew
she was frightened. I was sorry,
now, I'd let her come. Because—well,
I had a hunch Spike wasn't going to
take this lying down and knew
damned well I wasn't.

I managed, without being too obvi-
ous, to give Spike one quick look. I
knew he'd get it. We'd worked to-
gether before. I knew that when the
time came, he'd be right there with
me and he'd be there low.

Jake backed toward the door. He
was facing us; Katie was out of his
line of vision.

*Do you want our hands up, Jake?"
I asked cheerfully.

“You keep your hands where they

“All right, Jake. Just so you don't
get nervous with that rod." I glanced
at Katie, dropped my jaw, gasped:
*Katie! For God's sake!"

Well, it was old stuff but show me
the man who, under the circum-
stances, wouldn't shift his eyes an
instant. And that instant was all
we needed.

Spike went in low. His driving
shoulder buried itself a foot deep in
Jake's belly just as I made a wild
leap, knocked the rod aside with my
left hand and risked everything
on finding Jake's button with my
right. I was lucky; I had to be
lucky.

The .45 went off with a roar like
a twelve-inch howitzer. Pain, like a
red-hot knife, shot through my fist
and up my arm to the shoulder, It

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wasn't the bullet. It was the shock of
connecting with Jake's jaw.

e big broker went down with a
Crash. and Spike and I landed on
top of him. He was out but we took
no chances. While I hastily collared
the automatic, Spike gave Lun these
and those. And when Spike finished
and we stumbled to our feet. Jake
Morris was slumbering peacefully but
not prettily.

We both turned to Katie. She
hadn't moved and her face was putty-
white. But she smiled and managed
in a quavering voice that was not at
all like her own:

“You—you scared the hell out of
me, you two."

“Huh!” Dopey McClain grunted.
“If you was scared—what do you
think I was? Holy cats! Never again
do I hoist a ticker—not even from
my best friend."

In no time at all we got the dicks
over, gave them a tabloid version of
the story and streaked for the press
room. It was then eight minutes of
six and we had just eight minutes
to make our first edititions. As Katie,
still putty-white, started toward a
phone booth she faltered. She caught
hold of a chair and eased into it.
She looked green around the gills
and terribly frightened.

“Pinky!” she whispered.
going—to faint.”

Which she proceeded to do forth-
with.

We picked her up and laid her out
on a desk and looked at each other.

“The excitement,” Spike grinned,
“was too much for Katie. Well, she'll
snap out of it. In the meantime—
I got about five minutes to make the
bulldog with our story."

*What about the Sun?"

Spike glanced at the Duchess,
shrugged. “To hell with the Sun!
And to hell with the Lady and Katie!
Maybe this’ll teach ’em a police beat

*T'm—

is no place for a dame. Guys, now
—we don't faint. If Katie doesn't
come to in time to make her first
edition with the story—well, that's
just too bad. She can make her
second."

I decided I could be just as hard-
boiled as Spike.

“Oke!” I said. “To hell with the
Sun, and the Lady, and Katie!"

Spike went into a booth and closed
the door. I got some water and threw
it on the Duchess and opened the
collar of her blouse.

It was certainly a rotten break for
the kid. Here she'd seen it through
right up to the end—and then had to
go pull a stunt like this. I looked
over my shoulder at Spike. I could
see him, through the glass door, talk-
ing a mile a minute. I glanced back
at Katie. ... Oh, to hell with Spike!

I leaped into a booth and called
the Sun and asked for the desk. The
Lady came on with a terse:

“City desk! Commence!"

“This is Pinky Kane, Miss Tobin.
I want to give you the end of that
Rosenblatt story. Jake Morris, the
bail bond broker and one-time part-
ner of Rosenblatt, has been—"

* Moses on a bicycle," the Lady bel-
lowed. “What is this, Kane? Be Kind
to Animals Week? ,Spike Taylor just
gave me the story."

Well, we came out of our respec-
tive booths, Spike and I, at the same
instance. We met each others' eyes,
and Spike looked plenty sheepish and
I know I looked the same. Spike said
tentatively:

“Oh, well. She' s a pretty swell little
kid, anyway."

Katie, blinking, was sitting up on
the desk. *Who—who are you talk-
ing about?" she asked dazedly.

"Not you, yuh mugg!” Spike
retorted furiously. “Go back to
sleep!”

Look for another Whitman Cham-
bers thriller in next month’s issue of
Mystery. Also write in and tell us
what you think of this series. These
are “different” mystery stories, and
the only way we can tell if they please
you is to hear from you—so write and

help us choose your favorite stories!

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

I GO SLEUTHING

(Continued from page 67)

he returned from fishing he let
himself in the jail, laid down on his
bare wooden bunk and went to sleep.

Thereafter he carried the keys
more often than the jailer. His day-
time hours were his own. He left and
returned when he pleased. Sometimes
he would drop.in at the village
store for plug. If he chose to stick
around and croon with the barber
shop quartet, he did. Occasionally,
when sleeplessness beset him, he
would leave his cell and go for a
walk along the moon-lit mountain
ranges which reared in ghostly
majesty all about him. Communing
thus with nature as he knew it best,
he found the peace that the barren
cell did not afford. Many times when
the jailer arrived in the morning with
his breakfast, Beale would greet him
from the jailhouse steps where he
had “set all night, chawin’ and rumi-
natin’.”

On November 11, 1927, the supreme
court affirmed Beale’s conviction and
he was ordered to appear for sen-
tencing before the next term in Mingo
County Court. Beale made the trip to
court unescorted and spent the night
before his appearance in court in a
Williamson hotel alone.

Judge R. D. Bailey granted Beale
a commutation of sentence to life im-
prisonment when Beale was arraigned.

The state counsel protested, holding
that the governor alone had pardon-
ing power and Judge Bailey was di-
rected to re-impose the death sentence
and fix the execution date; but the
jurist, convinced of the prisoner's in-
nocence, refused to carry out the
mandate, doffed his robes and gave
up his bench.

Judge Raymond Maxwell of a
neighboring district was called to pre-
side in Bailey's place. He re-imposed
the death sentence and Beale, alone
and unguarded, went to the state
penitentiary where he presented him-
self asa tenant of death row.

On May 9, 1929, Beale, who had re-
signed himself to death and was steel-
ing himself to mount the gallows, a
“martyr to the blindness of West
Virginia justice," received a commu-
tation of sentence to life from Gov-
ernor William G. Conley.

On February 28, 1933, Governor
Conley, defeated for re-election, is-
sued a full pardon for Beale as one
of his last official acts, stating that
“after a most thorough study of this
case, I am convinced that the subject
is innocent."

Mountaineers in Nicholas County
will tell you today:

“Too honest a man this Clyde was.
He never kilt the woman, no way."

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The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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WHO AM I?
(Continued from page 17)
showed class, though in need of clean-

ing and pressing—and he was handed
a menu without objection.

“Small sirloin— French fried —
limas—coffee—apple pie,” ordered
the unusual customer. “And double

the potatoes and pie. Quick as you
can, please!”

His voice was cultured, deep and
soft, and the waiter was still more
assured that the man was as good for
the check. Besides, he had observed
that there was a thin gold watch-
chain across the customer’s vest.

When the food was put before him
the man began to wolf it as if he had
been starved for a week. The waiter
frowned and shook his head. Sud-
denly the voracious diner realized he
was in a public place, and his good
manners asserted themselves.

Finishing his second piece of pie,
he poured a second cup of coffee, and
the thought flashed on him?

“Where did I eat last?”

He couldn’t remember. Over the
second cup of coffee, he tried to put
together the jumbled puzzle of his
mind. Things of ordinary purpose,
the necessities of everyday life, were
clear.. He knew that he would have
to pay for this satisfying meal, that
he would buy a newspaper after-
wards, and a movie and bed were in
order; that there were men and wo-
men to know, to love, to dislike; that
everybody had a name, a place in the
world, and a home of some sort.

Except himself! For the most im-
portant pieces in that jumbled puz-
zle of his mind were missing—his
name, his residence, his business, his
people. If the hovering waiter had
known what was going on in that
agonized head he would not have
misunderstood the next move of the
customer.

For, in a sudden panic, the man
without an identity began a violent
search of his pockets. He was look-
ing for letters or papers, or any sort
of memoranda that would help him
find out who he was; but the waiter
was sure it was the old bluff of look-
ing for money that had never been
there.

“Anything I can do for you, sir?”
he asked, and insinuated the bill un-
der the man’s nose.

In digging into his otherwise empty
pockets, the suspected customer came
upon several crumpled greenbacks
and some silver—almost five dollars.
On this pleasant discovery the waiter
fawned. The bill was paid, but the
man who paid it sat as if glued to
the chair. He was frightened to
realize that there was not a scrap of
paper on him to indicate one little
fact as to whether he was Tom, Dick
or Harry, Smith, Jones or Brown;
whether he lived in this city of the
big railroad terminal or elsewhere;
what his occupation was.

“Who am I? Who am I?" he re-
peated soundlessly.

No one who has not experienced
that mysterious vacuum of the mind
called amnesia can appreciate the
tragic helplessness that engulfs the
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like being in mid-ocean in a rowboat
without oars.

Mechanically, this lost man’s hand
went to his. watch-pocket to ascer-
tain the time and he drew forth a
lady’s watch with an_ old-fashioned
double case. It startled him. In-
stinctively, he knew that it was, to-
gether with the thin delicate chain, a
feminine article of wear, and it set
him to thinking of women. So far
as he could recall, there were no
women in his life.

Engraving on the back of the
watch caught his eye.

“Cora,” it read.

But who was Cora? That name
meant absolutely nothing to him. He
said it over a dozen times to no
effect. Then he examined a rather
large shield-shaped medallion of cop-
per, enamelled on one side, which was
attached to the other end of the thin

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chain. There was a good-sized letter
“R” set in the enamel.

A gleam of hope penetrated his
mental darkness.

“Does my name begin with an
*R'?" he asked himself.

He tried to concentrate. It was no
use. But he did think of something.
Acting on the impulse, he rushed out
of the restaurant and made his way
to a telephone booth where he began
phumbing through a book to find the

g”.

Unsteadily, his finger went down
the list of names, and his lips mum-
bled them over:

“Raah ... Raash .. . Raatz...
Rab .. .” and right on through to
“Ryttenberg.”

More than fifty pages of small-
print names under “R”, but not one
of them struck a chord of recognition
in his memory. Wearily, after nearly
two hours of this close scanning and
whispering to himself, which again
brought him under the surveillance
of the station attendants and travel-
ers, he decided to go outdoors into
the streets. Fresh air might clear
his head, and the big city itself might
offer him a clue to his name or place.

Out he went into the busy thor-
oughfare, only to be more bewildered
than ever. The streets, the houses,
everything was new to his eyes. He
kept careful count of the blocks and
turns he took in his walk so as not
to lose the railroad terminal, for in
his plight that was the only home he
knew!

In fact, he determined to spend the
night there. The cost of that dinner
had made a big hole in his funds,
and he couldn’t afford a hotel room.
Therefore, he searched out a retired

spot in the railroad waiting-room
and went to sleep—porter or no
porter.

IS slumber was undisturbed. At

daylight, he awoke with the re-
newed bustle of the place. Now, he be-
came aware of how sticky and dirty
he was. Repairing to a coin-booth
lavatory, he managed to achieve a
bath with a wet towel while his clothes
were spread about for an airing.

Dressing, he felt much better. But
he was hungry again. He took out
his money and counted it: $2.30.
Though he knew he had to hoard
each nickel, he was sure he ought to
eat, get a shave and a clean collar.
His breakfast was simple but filling.
After buying a collar he made for
the barber-shop.

After the shave and the putting
on of a clean collar the man felt his
self-respect and morale come back,
and he spent the rest of the morning
trying to “find” himself. But read-
ing newspapers, signs, placards,
combing the streets, taking a subway
ride, talking to anyone who would
talk to him, shed no light on his
problem. At last he returned again

to the railroad station and ap-
proached a police officer detailed
there.

“I’m in trouble,” he said, “and I
want you to help me.”

“Sure, what is it?” replied the
patrolman, who was well-used to
questions and requests of all kinds.

“You see, officer, I don’t know who
I am, or where I came from, and
I am getting desperate.”

The policeman reached the obvious
conclusion that this fellow was drunk.

“Come on, old man,” he said, “TIl
steer you out to the street and then
you'll know where you are and how
to get home, and after a good sleep
you'll remember who you are.”

“Officer, I know you think I’m in-
toxicated,” said the man, “but I am
as sober as you are. I just don’t
know who I am, nor what happened
to me in all the years of my life up
to the time I came to in this station
last night! You must help me!”

The policeman said to himself:
“Here’s a nut!” Aloud, he said: “All
right, come with me.”

And he led the man of lost mem-
ory to the physician in charge of the
Pennsylvania Railroad’s medical ser-
vice. After the doctor had listened

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

WHO AM I?

to his story and put him through an
examination, he called up the Miss-
ing Persons Bureau and told me the
details, which I have just related.

“Captain Ayers,” he concluded, “I
think he is the man you have been
searching the country for these last
few weeks.”

‘HIS excited me, for the missing

man in question was nationally
prominent, had disappeared unac-
countably, and the President of the
United States himself was deeply
concerned as to what had become of
him. But the moment I laid eyes on
the man in the doctor's care I knew
it wasn't the President's friend for
whom we were searching. This man
was at least ten years younger—
about forty-five.

I saw before me a chap of five
feet eight, weighing in the neighbor-
hood of a hundred and fifty pounds;
his hair was light brown, beginning
to thin at the temples; his eyes were
blue; the face was an intellectual
one, now wearing an anxious, wor-
ried expression. 3

Especial, I concentrated on his
eyes, but I quickly realized that his
gaze was direct and that there was
no distension of the pupils usually
found in the eyes of one whose sanity
is unbalanced; but there was a light
of fear and uncertainty in them that
aroused one's pity. .

To put him more at ease if pos-
sible, I drew my chair closer to him
and placed my hand on his knee.

“Don’t you worry too much, old
man,” I said confidently. “This blank
you have drawn is only temporary,
I'm sure. Other cases similar to
yours have come to my attention and
we have been able to clear up the
mystery in each instance. Take it
easy, if you can, and tell me all about
it right from the start."

Employing the language of a cul-
tured and well-educated gentleman,
he repeated his story to me. When he
came to the point of searching his
pockets for identification data, I chal-
lenged him:

*How did you know that it was
the custom of men to carry letters
and the like in their coat pockets and
that you might find out your name
this way?"

I watched him closely. I had come
across men before this who had faked
amnesia, or a lost memory, because
of some criminal action, or because
they wanted to drop out of an en-
vironment that had grown distaste-
ful This fellow might be playing a
deep game for very good reasons un-
known to me. But the frank be-
wilderment of his face reassured me
as he answered:

“T really don’t know, Captain
Ayers. It must have been instinct or
habit. I can’t give you reasons for
any of the logical things I did since
last night when I was wide-awake
yet ‘woke up’ in a strange and terri-
fying world—I just did them almost
as a robot might do them."

“Well, you weren't much of a robot
to figure out that letter on your
watch-charm and go through the
‘R’s’ in the telephone book,” I said.
“That was real smart, old man!”

He was uncomfortable under my
analysis, I could see.

“Captain Ayers," he said, help-
lessly, “I fully realize my queer con-
dition. Apparently, I can reason,
solve the problems of living as they
come up, but I cannot remember any-
thing about myself further back than
last night. I know I've had a past
and I feel it has been a busy one.
I'm sure I've been accustomed to the
comforts of life. I may have a wife—
I don't know. I may have children—
I don't know. I may have a business
—I don't know. Think of not know-
ing your own name, Captain! What
in the world am I to do?"

“Don’t you attempt to do a single
thing," I said. “Just leave it all to
me and I'll get you from behind that
dark eurtain, and then we will have

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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a good laugh together over your little
vacation from yourself!”

He tried to smile but it was sadly
forced.

At this point the railroad doctor in-
formed us that his office hours were
up, and he had outside duties to per-
form.

“It’s your case, anyway, Captain,”

he said.
: The man of lost identity and I ad-
journed to the quarters of the chief
of the railroad police. Here we re-
sumed our conversation, and I asked
him if the lady's watch and chain and
medallion were the only personal pos-
sessions he had on him.

“And this bunch of keys," he re-
plied, passing them over.

.l went over them one by one with
him, trying to stir his recollection of
their use, but only a small one that
looked like an ignition-key to a car
‘brought a look of puzzled recognition
into his eyes.

"Do you drive an auto?" I asked.

“I don't know," he said, “but I
have a feeling that if I were in a
car I could operate it—maybe I
couldn't, though."

"Too bad we haven't the license as
well as the key, “I observed, “but
then you’d have found yourself long
ago.” Then I added: “I wonder how
long ago it is that you dropped out
of your former life?”

He shook his head.

“T haven’t the faintest idea,” he
said. “Have you?”

“No,” I admitted, “I haven’t. You
see, you could have been living as
another person for years before your
so-called ‘awakening’ in the Pennsyl-
vania waiting-room.”

During the last ten minutes of talk
I thought I had detected a slight New
England accent in his cultured speech.
On the chance of his possible con-
nection with an institution of learn-
ing, I suddenly enquired:

“Ever hear of Harvard?”

“No,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I demanded.

“Never heard the word before, that
I know of, Captain," he answered in
all sincerity.

Strangely enough, he instantly rec-
ognized the name of Yale and a half
dozen other Eastern colleges that I
mentioned, and gave mé their correct
locations.

Did not knowing Harvard have any
significance? I wondered to myself.
Why had it been blotted out of his
memory?

While we chatted in the room of
the chief of the railroad police, I
noted that my vis-a-vis did not look
me straight in the eye as he had in
the doctor's office, but fixed his gaze
at a point over my head. Finally,
I turned to see what he was looking
at. It was a shelf of books, mostly
law books.

*Do you know any of them?" I
enquired.

“I think so,"
named one.

It was a well-known treatise on the
law of contracts. I reached for it and
opened it haphazardly. Pointing to
the footnotes which were thick on
the pages, and which were full of
legal abbrevations, I asked:

“Can you translate and explain
these terms?"

He did it fluently.

“What language are the abbrevia-
tions in?"

“Latin.”

“Why?”

“Many of our legal words are in
Latin.”

“What does ‘Connors v. Coleman’
mean?”

“Connors versus Coleman.”

“And ‘versus’ is what?”

“Latin for ‘against’.”

Having, as a young man, studied
law myself, I entered a legal dis-
cussion with him, and his familiarity
with law persuaded me that it must
be his profession—and that was an
important clue, indeed.

I was convinced he was a lawyer,
a New Englander, and that the blank
reaction to Harvard tied in some-

(Please turn to page 86)

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... Continued. ...
The List of Stores
Where You Can See

Towerc/larFashions

Please see also page 88 for stores

from Alabama to South Dakota.

Pictures of Tower Star Fashions are
on page 14.

TENNESSEE

Bristol—The H. P. King Co.
Chattanooga—Miller Bros.
Dyersburg—Style Shop
Harriman—Dress Shop
Jackson—The Francis Shop
Knoxville—Miller's, Inc.
Memphis—J. Goldsmith & Sons Co.
Nashville—Rich, Schwartz & Joseph
Morristown—J. W. Arnold
Paris—Hunt Bros. (Hollywood Dept.)
Union City—Hunt Bros. (Hollywood Dept.)

TEXAS

Abilene—Campbell's
Amarillo—Hollywood Dress Shop
Athens—Mandelstein's
Austin—Goodfriends

Bay City—The Hurley Shoppe
Beaumont—W orth’s, Inc.
Beeville—The Parisian
Brady—Benham Style Shop
Breckenridge—The Belota Shop
Brownwood—G arner-Alvis Co.
Cameron—Lyon D. G. Co.
Cisco—J. H. Garner's

Corpus Christi—Smart Shop
Denison—Richie-Freels
Denton—H. M. Russell & Sons
El Paso—The White House
Gainesville—T eaque Co.
Greenville—R. E. King
Houston—Hutton, Inc.
Kingsville—J. B. Ragland'Merc. Co.
Laredo—A. C. Richter, Inc.
Lubbock—Freed's Women's Apparels
Lulling—O'N eill's
McAllen—The Fashion
Overton—The Mcdel
Pampa—Mitchell's

Port Arthur— Worth, Inc.
Shamrock—B. & L. Store
Temple—W. P. Roddy
Texarkana—I. Schwartz Co.
Tyler—Miller

Vernon—Gold Feder's
Victoria—A. & S. Levy, Inc.
Yorktown—Goodfriend’s

UTAH
Logan—Milady’s Shop

VERMONT

Burlington—Abernethy Clarkson-Wright, Inc.
Brattleboro—J. E. Mann

Rutland—The Vogue Shop

St. Johnsbury—The Gray Shop

VIRGINIA

Charlottesville—H. G. Eastham Shop, Inc.
Covington—The Quality Shop
Danville—L. Herman's Dept. Store
Galax—Claire's Fashion Shop
Harrisonburg—J. Ney & Son
Lynchburg—Baldwin's

Norton—The Ladies Shop
Richmond—Jonas Shop
Roanoke—Natalie Shop
Staunton—Helen G. Eastham
Suffolk—Ballard & Smith
Waynesboro—Rosenthal's Style Shop
Winchester—The Smart Shop

WASHINGTON

Long View—Columbia River Merc. Co.
Pomeroy—H. H. Cardwell
Seattle—Jerome

Spokane—The Palace Store
Yakima—Bames-Woodin Co.

WEST VIRGINIA

Alderson—J. M. Alderson
Beckley—The Women’s Shop, Inc.
Blueficld—The Vogue
Charleston—The People’s Store
Clarksburg—Par son-Souders
Fairmont—J. M. Hartley
Hinton—Campbell's Quality Shop
Lewisburg—Y arid's
Logan—Manning Clo. Co.

St. Mary’s—Everly Sisters
Weston—Polly Primm Dress Shop
Wheeling—Geo. E. Stifel Co.
Williamson—Schwacter’s

WISCONSIN

Appleton—Geenen D. G. Co.
Ashland—Smith Style Shop
Beaver Dam—Heuton & Wenz
Beloit—McNeany D. G. Co.
Kenosha—Betty Shops
Madison—Cinderella Shop
Milwaukee—Reel’s
Monroe—Link Store
Sheboygan—Hill Bros.

WYOMING

Cheyenne—Bon Marche
Lander—The Smart Shop
Laramie—Sheridan—Kepp-Baertsch

wHO AM I?
(Continued from page 85)

how with his forgotten past.

Following along that line of deduc-
tion I telephoned the Boston Police
Headquarters that night, after see-
ing my “patient” comfortably en-
sconced in one of the New York hos-
pitals, where he could rest and be
taken proper care of, while at the
same time, he might be under scien-
tific observation.

“T am in your hands, Captain
Ayers," he said to me with a child-
like trust that was touching, “and
whatever you say goes—I trust you
implicitly.”

WEEN I first phoned the Boston
police, they informed me that
they had no case of a reported dis-
appearance that tallied with my
facts, but they made notes of what
I told them and promised to get in
touch with me if they heard anything
pertinent to the case. Then I di-
rected the sending out of the history
of “Mr. Z.” to all the police depart-
ments throughout the Eastern States.
I was still sure that he was a
Yankee, you see, even if Boston knew
nothing about him.

And my hunch was right. For the
next morning, I had been in my office
only a few minutes before Boston
was on the wire. It seemed that the
police of that city had been requested
by the authorities of a suburban town
to assist in finding a man who had
vanished from his home two weeks
ago, without rhyme or reason.

We checked and counter-checked
the description of this missing man,
and the watch with “Cora” engraved
in the case clinched the matter.

*Who was Cora?" I inquired.*

*His mother," came the reply.

“Ts he married?" I pursued.

“Yes, he is," was the answer.

And they said that his wife would
take the first train for New York
the moment she was informed of the
whereabouts of her husband. They
had been a devoted couple, and his
wife had had private detectives
searching for him, until she was
driven by desperation and anxiety
to ask the co-operation of the police
authorities.

Her husband had passed a restful
night in the hospital, and he appeared
to be improved to normal standards.
But when his wife flew to his bedside
and knelt there, he didn't recognize
her.

“Hello, Tom, dear!”
“How do you feel?”

He gazed at her blankly.

“I suppose you are someone I
ought to know,” he said, “but I can’t
remember ever having seen you be-
fore.”

Mrs. Jackson was made of the real
stuff. She didn’t betray any horri-
fied surprise, nor go into hysterics.
Instead, she said very quietly:

“Why, Tom, you should know me
of all people—I am Jane—Janie, your
wife!”

“Are you?” he asked. “I’m aw-
fully sorry, but I can’t seem to re-
member you. I’m glad to see you,
though.”

And he extended his hand. They
shook hands as two strangers might
on formal introduction.

Never in my varied life had I been
witness to such a meeting between
a husband and wife—and, may I
add, a husband and wife married for
eighteen years!

Then began the long, tiresome,
often hopeless process of trying to
bring Tom’s memory back. Day after
day, Jane would sit at his side re-
calling, relatives, friends, incidents to
his darkened mind. Now and again,
there would be a flicker:

“Yes, I seem to remember that.
... Oh, was it Mrs. Bradshaw who
burned the cocoanut cake that_after-
noon of the tea-party? . . . Yes, I
recall a lady who broke her arm—
you say it was my mother? . . ."

And so on through a thousand
hints, suggestions, and mutual ex-

she cried.

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periences recalled by the patient,
fighting Jane. Until one memorable
afternoon when Tom flashed out:

"Yes, yes, Janie—I remember you
now. You are my darling wife!
Weren’t we married on June 10,
1914? Tell me, sweetheart!"

! Jane broke down and wept for
joy.

But the clouds gathered again. He
didn't recognize her the next morn-
ing. His memory flared up, then
faded. Alternately, this went on for
several weeks, but Tom Jackson was
getting better. Lapses grew fewer.
And in due time Tom returned with
his wife to their little town not far
from Boston and Harvard.

Fully recovered, the man who lost
his past wrote me one of the finest
letters of appreciation I ever got,
and I cherish it among my most
prized mementoes.

Readers may enquire: “But why
did Tom Jackson lose his memory?”

Science cannot answer that ques-
tion yet—only God Almighty.

With his hardest thinking and all
of his earnest prayers, Tom Jackson
could only gather, and that dimly,
that he was driving along in his auto-
mobile on a local road he had often
traveled when—wham!—he suddenly
drove into nothingness, where he
went on living for nearly two weeks,
then “came to" in another unknown
world on a waiting-room bench.

You can hardly match that for Liv-
ing Mystery.

Captain Ayers will present the
second article of this thrilling series
in next month's issue of MYSTERY.
Don't miss this celebrated man’s own
true mysteries as they appear from
month to month.

THE LINE-UP

(Continued from page 6)

by China's Scourge,” in your current
issue, is well worth the price of a
year's subscription.

People only pay a ten cent piece
for MYsTERY MAGAZINE. What, might
I ask, do these blooming blighters
want for a dime? Undoubtedly, a half
interest in your job, Mr. Editor; but
if these letters are given any thought,
yours must be a job which no one
could induce me to consider.

End this “Line-Up” feature; and
give the “knockers” that something
that all “knockers” should have—a
hall, but without an audience.

I have read the letters of “knock-
ers" so long, that I decided to give
a one-man-applause-campaign, for-
MYSTERY- MAGAZINE- a -fresh -outlook -
on-life.

If your contributors sent in con-
structive criticism, it might be worth
reading. But it is, and pardon my
frankness, just so much literary rot,
when compared with the rest of your
periodical.

Here's a pat on the back, by way
of conclusion, for all your staff, yes,
even down to the janitors.

Yours for more helpful letters—or
no letters at all.

Henry Francis Kane

Change of Heart

ATLANTA, GA.—I have been a
constant reader of your MYSTERY
MAGAZINE for some time but several
months ago I began to grow tired
of it. All the stories seemed so very
much the same. Same old problems,
same old characters, same old setting.
Many times I didn't bother to read
more than a few lines of a story be-
cause I could tell it was just going
to wind up with the same old end.

I'm telling you this because I want
you to know how differently I feel
now. My sisters just brought me a
copy of the May Mystery and I've
just this moment finished reading
“Darker Grows the Valley.” I had a
thousand things to do but once I’d

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

THE LINE-UP

begun that novel I couldn’t put the
magazine down till I’d finished. I
think it’s simply swell—and so
original. I don't know—I guess I
liked it because it was so real. I've
never read a book before that made
me think it was all really happening.
The characters were so natural and
the love story was so cute—not a bit
overdone as it usually is. I shan't
forget that.

» Mrs. Netta Green

A Little Dissatisfied

JERSEY CITY, N. J.—My hus-
band and I have been constant read-
ers of MYSTERY MAGAZINE since it
was first published and we found it
hard to wait until the first of each
month. We particularly liked the in-
troduction of the complete novel which
this month is exceptionally interest-
ing and worth the entire cost of the
magazine; therefore, I really have
no right to voice any dissatisfaction
with the remainder of the stories.
There seems, however, to be a gradu-
ally decreasing number of the short
mystery stories, this month's quota
being only four, and these do not
seem up to your old time standard.
I did so like some of the old char-
acters that appeared so often in your
book.

As for Theodore Dreiser, his long
drawn-out reactions and theories in
one of the recent murder cases that
was written up in all the newspapers
down to the Tast detail, cannot end
too soon for me. I’m not interested in
his investigations and his views on
the case although, of course, other
people may be. I want a magazine such
as Mystery to be entertaining and
interesting. There are other maga-
zines which would be expected to deal
with current events and news topics
of interest, but a “Mystery” or “De-
tective" magazine should be just that.

We did prefer the old size instead
of the new larger size, but so long as
the contents remain up to standard
the size is of little moment. Please
pardon my frankness, but it’s only
so you'll know your readers notice
any change in the character of your
magazine.

Mrs. R. H. Ferrier

Cheerio!

SOUTH BENFLEET, ENGLAND
—I think you might care to have an
English contribution to “The Line-
Up.” It is true I only “discovered”
the MYSTERY MAGAZINE compara-
tively recently, but I now look for
it each month and read it in prefer-
ence to any magazine published on
this side, In its way it certainly is
unique, and lives up to its claim to
being *the only magazine of its kind
in the world." And for a magazine
(or anything else for that matter) to
live up to the claims it makes is
something these days.

It is hard to criticize, as I find
most of the stories good. But do spare
us the infliction of any Sax Rohmer
or similar stuff. These stories are so
ridiculously impossible that they can
only either bore or annoy the intelli-
gent reader. Any way, if you must
include them occasionally, one in a
twelvemonth is enough.

I like the illustrations—they help to
give realism to the stories.

Mrs. M. Scott

The Good with the Bad

ST. LOUIS, MO.—The things I do
not like about MYSTERY MAGAZINE
are so trivial compared with the
things that I do like about it. How-
ever, I must tell you about them.

I, too, don’t care for the new size.
And what an arrangement! When
one has a habit of reading a maga-
zine straight through from cover to
cover without any skipping about, she
certainly doesn’t like to read the
“Line-Up” before getting to the
stories.

The MYSTERY Magazine, July, 1935

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ADDRES:

The book-length stories are best of
all, particularly the one in your
February issue. I liked the one in
the book for May too, but “Blonde in
the News,” was uninteresting.

How about more horror stories?

Congratulations on your variety
of features.

Mrs. M. Nichols

That May Issue!

PUNXSUTAWNEY, PA.—Travel-
ing about as I do, I read a great
many mystery magazines, but I’m not
often moved either to praise or pan
editors for the stuff they offer. But
I have just read the novel in your
May issue (Darker Grows the Valley)
and it certainly is a wow. I usually
like the full-length stories you give
us, but this one is head and shoulders
above anything I’ve read for the past
year. It’s got action, character, ex-
citement, mystery and, above all, good
writing. Maybe I’m a crank but I
still like an author to write English
instead of trying to get by with a lot
of sloppy sentences and cliches.
“Darker Grows the Valley” is my
idea of the hundred per cent maga-
zine story.

By the way, that French short story
by Maurice Level was swell, too.
Those two stories alone make your
May issue the best yet this year. I'll
go on buying them if I can hope
to have more Level and especially—
more Q. Patrick.

James Hall Witherow

A Mystery Appetite

PATON, IOWA—I never make it a
practice to write to magazines, but
after reading the May number of
Mystery, I must break my rule just
this once—both to praise and criti-
cize.

First the criticism:

Although Mystery still has the
same high quality, it seems to me it
has cut down in “quantity.” We
realize we are still getting value of
at least ten times the price we pay,
but many of us would have been glad
to pay twice the price for a magazine
with the old number of stories.

Now the praise:

The complete novel, “Darker Grows
the Valley," is one of the best mys-
tery stories I have ever read, and the
very best since Hammett’s “The Thin
Man." I will be greatly surprised if
we don't find it on the screen in the
near future.

*Was the Corpse Dead?" was the
best short story with a most unusual
twist to it, and I hope we have more
like it.

Good work, MvsrERY, I only wish
you had a twin.

Mrs. Nelson Ghem

A Fan

NORTH CHICAGO, ILL.—For
once, you have done an almost im-
possible thing, you have made a wo-
man hold her tongue. I have been
boasting for ten years, that the
weekly detective magazine I buy has
no equal. Then, in January, I picked
up the MYSTERY, and since then I am
silent, except for recommending it to
other people. Don’t change it please.
I have only one “kick.” I wish your
magazine came every week.

Mrs. R. Main

Fair Exchange

COLEMAN, TEXAS—I exchange
magazine every week with a friend
of mine, and last month she gave me
a MYSTERY MAGAZINE. I naturally
enjoy detective stories, so I was glad
to get it. After reading the book-
length novel, “Murder Madness,” and
“The Babe Gets His Man” I was con-
verted to MYSTERY MAGAZINE for
keeps. All the stories were good and
I intend to be a steady customer from
now on. Three cheers for your mag-
azine. It is fine!

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ALABAMA

Birmingham—New Williams
Huntsville—Mary Shop
Montgomery—Alex Rue
Troy—Rosenberg Bros.

ARIZONA

Bisbee—Smart Shop
Douglas—Hosiery & Art Shop
Phoenix—Goldwater’s
Tucson—Whitehouse Dept. Store

ARKANSAS

El Dorado—J. F. Sample Co
Ft. Smith—Tilles, Inc.
Helena—H. S. Cooper

Little Rock—M. M. Cohn Co.

IOWA

Atlantic—Bullock & Sons
Boone—The Riekenberg Co.
Cherokee—Ellerbrook Bros.

Des Moines—Younker Bros.
Dubuque—Roshek Bros., Inc.
Mason City—D. K. Lundberg Co.
Oelwein—Connor's

the stores listed below.

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write Tower Star Fashions Editor, 55 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N. Y.

MISSISSIPPI

Clarksdale—The Madeira Shop
Columbus—The Fashion Center
Greenville—J. B. Tonkel Shops, Inc.
Grenada—The Leader
Jackson—Fried's Shop for Women
Meridian—Kay's, Inc.
Vicksburg—J. B. Tonkel Shops, Inc.

NORTH CAROLINA—Cont'd

Goldsboro—Niel Joseph
Greensboro—Ellis Stone & Co.
Greenville—C. Heber Forbes
Hickory—L. Herman, Inc.

High Point- -Beavans Quality Shop

North Wilkesboro—Spainhour-Sydnour Co.

Red Springs—Graham Co.
Reidsville—The Hazel Shop

Rocky Mount—Rosenbloom-Levy Co.
Washington—Carter’s Dress Shop
Wilmington—The Julia
Wilson—Lucille’s

Winston Salem—Arcade Fashion Shop

NORTH DAKOTA

Fargo—A. L. Moody

Grand Fork—Herberger, Inc.
Jamestown—Robertson’s, Inc.
Kenmore—Knudson's, Inc.
Minot—Sgutts Store for Women

New Rockford—Rodenberg & Schwoebel
Valley City—Fair Dept. Store

CALIFORNIA Sioux City—Davidson Bros. Co. Williston—G. M. Hedderick & Co.
—" May Co.
Gatien Zaxor’s : KANSAS MISSOURI OHIO
Pomona—C. C. Bower & Co. " ?,
e o Atchison—Ramsay's Booneville—Sunny Day Store: Ashland—Max H. Zola
Fi isco—The Ei E D y Day s ss] s
Sen JoseM. Blum & Cos o Coffeyville—Cole’s Brookfield —Vogue Shop Athens—Slingluff 's

Santa Barbara—The Smart Shop

COLORADO

Colorado Springs—C. V. Clamp
Denver—Denver D. G. Co.

Grand Junction—A. M. Harris Stores Co.

La Junta—Holbrook Costume Shop
Meeker—A. Oldland Co.
Pueblo—Colorado Supply Co.

CONNECTICUT

Bridgeport—Howland D. G. Co.
Hartford—Brown Thomson Inc.

New Haven—The Gamble-Desmond Co.
Torrington—Dankins Inc.

DELAWARE

Wilmington—Kennard-Pyle Co,

DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA

Washington—Woodward & Lothrop Inc

FLORIDA

Arcadia—Personality Shop
Gainesville—Geiger's
Miami—Burdine's
Ocala—Blocker’s
Orlando—Yowell-Drew Co.
Quincy—The J. S. Shaw Co., Inc
St. Petersburg—Rutland Bros.
Tallahassee—P. W. Wilson Co.
Tampa—Ernest Maas Inc.

GEORGIA

Athens—Michaels Bros. Inc.
Atlanta—Davison-Paxon Co.
Augusta—Goldberg's
Bainbridge—Turners Shop
Blakely—Daniel’s
Cordele—The Everstyle Shoppe
Macon—Mayson’s
Waycross—The Fashion Shop
West Point—Cohen Brothers

ILLINOIS

Champaign—G. C. Willis
Charleston—Dress Well Shops
Chicago—Mandel Bros.

Du Quoin—Ross Store
Galesburg—Kellogg, Drake & Co.
Joliet—Dinet & Co.

Marion—C. W. Hay
Mattoon—M. M. Lewis

Mount Vernon—The Fashion Shop
Murphysboro—Ross Store
Rochelle—Whitson D. G. Co.
Rockford—Wortham's

Springfield —Myer Bros.
Streator—Opdyckes
Waukegan—Hein's

West Frankfort—Burg's

Manhattan— The Parisian
Pittsburg—Newman's

ina- 'he Parisian
Topeka—Edward’s
Wichita—George Innes Co.

KENTUCKY

Ashland—The Smart Shop
Fort Thomas—The Ft. Thomas Shoppe
Glasgow—H. W. Jolly & Son
Hazard—Major Store
Henderson—Bohn's
Louisville—Kaufman-Strauss Co.
Owensboro—Levy's, Inc.

Paris—Model Dress Shop
Somerset—The A. J. Joseph Co.
Winchester—Vic Bloomfield & Sons

LOUISIANA

Alexandria—Hixson's
Lafayette—Davis's

Lake Charles—Maurice’s

New Orleans—D. H. Holmes Co Ltd

MAINE

Bangor—Cortell-Segel Co.
Calais—Unobsky's
Caribou—Pattee Co.
Houlton—Bennett's
Presque Isle—Green Bros.

MARYLAND

Baltimore—The May Co.
Frederick—Gilbert’s
Hagerstown—Eyerly’s
Sparrows Point—Service Stores

MASSACHUSETTS

Allston—Lila Dress Shop

Boston—Wm. Filene's Sons Co.
Gardner—Rose's

Haverhill—Sherry Stores Inc.
Lawrence—Russem's

Lowell—Katherine C. Mack

Salem—Besse's Apparel Shop A
Springfield —Meekins, Packard & Wheat, Inc

MICHIGAN

Albion—Vaughn & Ragsdale Co.
Alpena—Thomas Gown Shop
Battle Creek—Schroeder's

Bay City—Tabor Dress Shop
Big Rapids—Wilson's
Birmingham—Twin Shop
Detroit —B. Siegel & Co.
Flint—King Clothing Co.
Goldwater—Vaughn & Ragsdale
Jackson—Jacobson’s
Kalamazoo—Sanders
Lansing—F. N. Arbaugh Co.
Mt. Clemens—Marshall’s Store
Saginaw—Heavenrich’s

MINNESOTA

Albert Lea—Skinner-Chamberlain
Austin—M. Lewis & Co.

Detroit Lakes—L. J. Norby Co.
Duluth—Geo. A. Gray Co.
Faribault—Gray’s Style Shop

Fergus Falls—Norby Dept. Store, Inc.

Chillicothe—Lewis Anderson, Inc
Hannibal—Reib's

Jefferson City—Peltason's
Kansas City—Geo. P. Peck
Kirksville—Herman’s
Laplata—Tansil-Grantges
Mexico—Phillip's
Moberly—Grand Fashion Shop
St. Joseph—The Paris
Trenton—E)
University City—Rubenstein’s
Warrensburg—Foster’s

MONTANA

Billings—Hart-Albin Co., Inc.
Chinook—Princess Pat Shoppe
Columbus—The Boston Shop
Great Falls—Stiles’ Style Shop
Helena—Fischer Mill’y. Co.
Sidney—Yellowstone Merc. Co.

NEBRASKA

Fall City—Jenny's
Fremont—Marson's
Omaha—Goldstein-Cliapman
Lincoln—Gold & Co.
Scottsbluff—The Hollywood Shop

NEW HAMPSHIRE

Claremont—Pelletier & Snowman
Concord—Betty Alden
Littleton—C. A. Libby Co.
Lebanon—Richardson & Langlois
Manchester—Rogers, Inc.

NEW JERSEY

Asbury Park—Dainty App. Shop.
Frechold—Pearlman’s Dept. Store
Guttenberg—Florence Shoppe
Jersey City—State Gown Shop
Maplewood—Constance Harris
Newark—Kresge’s

New Brunswick—Zarra's
Passaic—Charlotte Shop
Paterson—Anne Shop
Trenton—Lillian Charm

NEW YORK

Albany—Davids

Baldwinsville—D. Cooper
Binghamton—Sisson Bros.-Welden Co.
Buffalo—Adam, Meldrum & Anderson
Ithaca—Pritchard’s Style Shop
Newburgh—The Sonia

New York City—Macy’s Cinema Shop
Norwich—Rosalyn Spec. Shop
Ogdensburg—Nathan Frank's Sons
Oneonta—Rosalyn Spec. Shop
Rochester—David's

Saranac Lake—Altman’s
Sidney—Rosalyn Spec. Shop

Staten Island, St. George—Irene Dress Shoppe
Syracuse—David's
Utica—Doyle-Knower Co., Inc.
Watertown—Frank A. Empsall Co.

NEW MEXICO

Albuquerque—Mosler’s Smart Shop

Cincinnati—Mabley & Carew Co.
Cleveland—Halle Bros. Co. Budget Shop
Cleveland Heights—Polly Style Shop
Dayton—Elder- Johnson Co.

E. Liverpool—Stein D. G. Co.
Findlay—Simon's
Hillsboro—Rothman's

Kenton—F: W. Uhlman
Lakewood—Bailey’s Lakewood Store
Mansfield—The R. B. Maxwell Co.
Marion—Uhler Phillips Co.
Massilon—Van Horn's
Portsmouth—Atlas Fashion
Toledo—Lasalle & Koch Co.
Wilmington—Lacy's
Youngstown—Strouss-Hirshberg Co.

OKLAHOMA

Ada—Katz Dept. Store
Altus—The Vogue
Ardmore—G. H. Henley
Blackwell—Pollyanna Shop
Bristow—The Globe Store
Chickasha—The Eagle Merc. Co.
Duncan—Hollyw ood Shop
Enid—Garfield’s
Frederick—Mark's
Guthrie—Davenport's
Miama—Rose Bud Shoppe
Sapula—Katz Dept. Store
Sulphur—Sulphur D. G. Co.
Vinita—Zimme:man's
Wewoka—J. M. Davidson

OREGON
Medford—Adriennes

PENNSYLVANIA

Aliquippa—Pittsburgh Merc. Co.
Allentown—Zollinger-Harned Co.
Altoona—William F. Gable Co.
Bradford—Becky's
Butler—Weiss's
Chambersburg—Worth's
Charleroi— Wayne's
Corry—The Nast Co.
Erie—Keefe & Johnson
Greensburg—S. W. Rose Co.
Harrisburg—Pomeroy's, Inc.
Homestead—Robbins Shop
Johnstown—Schwartz
Lansford—Bright's
Lock Haven—Grossman’s
McKeesport—Cox's
Philadelphia— Gimbel Bros.
Pittsburgh—K aufman's
Pottsville—Skelly's
Reading—Pomeroy's
Scranton—The Band Box
Shamokin— Worth's
Shenandoah—Goldberg’s
Upper Darby—Mayer's
ilkes-Barre—Fowler Dick & Walker
Williamsport— Worth's
York—P. Wiest's Sons

RHODE ISLAND
Woonsocket—McCarthy D. G. Co.

SOUTH CAROLINA

Anderson—G. H. Bailers
Camden—Fashion Shop

qus Fal nm i H

INDIANA lg m ide snes Hart à Sons Gallup—R. & R. Mill'y Clinton. Ladies Shoppe,
; » diem lanes jumbia—Halti

Bion reip eee Falle--The Wm. R. Wingate Co. Conway—Jerry Cox Co.

Crawfordsville—Adler’s. Inc.
Frankfort—The Adler Co.
Gary—H. Gordon & Sons
Greenburg—Levenstein D. G. Co.
Indianapolis—William H. Block Co.
Lebanon—Adler & Co.
Logansport—Schmitt & Kloepper

Rochester—Ladies Shop

St. Paul—Golden Rule

St. Cloud—Fandel's
Stillwater—Kolliner's
Wadena—James Hart & Son
Winona—The Fashion, Inc.

NORTH CAROLINA

Albemarle—G. M. Dry & Sons
Asheville—Brener’s

Burlington—B. A. Sellars & Sons, Inc.
Charlotte—Darling Shop
Durham—R. L. Baldwin

Kingstree—The Ladies Shop
Mullins—Razor Clardy Co.
Orangeburg—Mosley’s Dept. Store

SOUTH DAKOTA

ie—Woodbury' Virginia— Johnny’ `

me e Rie Ord fries d doen
ichmond—Sittioh’s i W: — Schaller"
rm M e Turn to page 86 for stores from Tennessee to Wyoming e $275 ies

The MYSTERY Magazine, July,

1935

v. lle É

Gi!

ly Hida ~

DR.ELLIS'
WAVE

SET

SPECIAL

"QUICK- DRY"
WAVING

[DR. ELLIS BEAUTY AID PRODUCTS

Be modern! Exquisite loveliness is the mode of the day. Quality
and quantity are combined, in Dr. Ellis’ Beauty Aids to make
beauty culture a pleasant daily routine of home grooming within
your means instead of an extravagant luxury.

Dr. Ellis’ Beauty Aids contain the finest and purest of ingredients,
They have been tested and approved by the leading skin specialists
and beauticians,

Keeping young is the duty of every woman. Dr. Ellis’ research, skill
and experience has placed beauty culture within the reach of all.

In hot, sulky, sultry summer weather the care of the skin presents

“Touchy” problems. Dr. Ellis’ Creams solve these problems one by
one, In Dr. Ellis' facial creams lie the secret of skin loveliness. They

Dr. Ellis’ Liquefying Cleansing Cream

FLUID

TRADE

are scientifically and dermatologically tested. Each cream is com-
pounded and prepared to accomplish a definite purpose. Whether
your skin needs stimulation, nutrition or cleansing, you will find a
Dr. Ellis’ cream for your individual need. Your complexion is pre-
cious—guard it as you would a treasure, by using Dr. Ellis’ Creams,

There is a wealth of satisfaction in knowing that you use the Best,
You have that satisfaction when you buy a Dr. Ellis’ Product. Dr.
Ellis’ Special “Quick-Dry” WAVESET gives that rich, gleaming lus-
tre of a lemon rinse to the hair. It does not discolor hair; waves
become more beautiful and last longer.

DR. ELLIS’ SPECIAL “QUICK-DRY” WAVESET LEAVES NO
POWDER. Sold in the original comb-dip bottle. . . The name Dr.
Ellis’ on the package is your definite assurance of superior quality,

Dr. Ellis’ Lemon Oil Concentrate Shampoo 10c

Dr. Ellis’ Vanishing Cream - - 1% oz. DR ELLIS Dr. Ellis’ Waveset Concentrate - - 10c
"S : 10c, d

Dr. Ellis’ Lemon Cleansing Cream | LIQUEFYING Dr. Ellis’ Waveset Powder Pee Hoc
Dr. Ellis’ Tissue Cream — - — - 4 oz. | CLEANSING
Dr. Ellis’ Cold Cream y 2 20c Dr. eid eae dee nh i ee oe
Dr. Ellis’ Hand Cream E 3 ardinal, Coral, Natural, Rose, Crysta

Dr. Ellis’ White Tip (in Creme only) — - 10c
Dr. Ellis’ Original Skin Balm . * 10c Dr. Ellis’ Cuticle Oil and Remover * 10c
Dr. Ellis' Special *Quick-Dry" Waveset - 10c DR. ELLIS’ SALES CO., INC. Dr. Ellis’ Polish Remover, Plain and Oil 10c
Dr, Ellis’ Brilliantine—Rose & Amber — - 10c MM MEME Dr Ellis’ Lilac Astringent (Freshener) - 20c

We asked Society Women

why they Prefer Camels —

D n 7
^ Morei: “Every oneis gay

now and almost every one is smoking
Camels,” replied Mrs. Allston Boyer. "I can
smoke as many as I want and they never up-
set my nerves. Lots of people have told me
the same thing. And I notice that if I'm
tired, smoking a Camel freshens me up."

— M “In the enjoyment

of smoking, Camels certainly make a differ-
ence," answered Miss Mary de Mumm
(below). "Their flavor is so smooth and mild
that you enjoy the last one as much as the
first. I’m sure that's one reason they are so ex-
tremely popular." More expensive tobaccos!

"FLAVOR," SAYS MISS MARY DE MUMM

Among the many
distinguished women who prefer

Camel's costlier tobaccos:
MRS. NICHOLAS BIDDLE, Philadelphia
MISS MARY BYRD, Richmond
MRS, POWELL CABOT, Boston
MRS. THOMAS M. CARNEGIE, JR., New York
MRS. J GARDNER COOLIDGE, II, Boston
MRS. BYRD WARWICK DAVENPORT, New York
MRS, HENRY FIELD, Chicago
MRS. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, New York
MRS. POTTER D'ORSAY PALMER, Chicago
MRS. LANGDON POST, New York
MISS EVELYN CAMERON WATTS, New York

MRS. WILLIAM T. WETMORE, New York

MILDNESS IS WHAT MISS DOROTHY PAINE PREFERS IN CAMELS

NO BOTHERED NERVES FOR MRS. ALLSTON BOYER

Wis. A +“Camels have such

a grand, mild flavor, and that’s because they
have more expensive tobaccos in them,” said
Miss Dorothy Paine (below). “They are the
most popular cigarettes...every one is smok-
ing them now.”

Women do appreciate mildness in a ciga-
rette, and the additional happy fact that Camels
never bother the nerves—that is why they are
so enthusiastic about Camels! The finer. more
ye tobaccos in Camels make a real

expens
difference—in mildness, flavor, and pleasure.

AYS MRS. ROBERT R. HITT

“REFRESHING,

ve Krebs l

"Sometimes you are apt to smoke more than
usual" said Mrs. Robert R. Hitt, "and I
notice that Camels never upset my nerves.
In fact. if I'm a bit tired. I find that smoking
a Camel rests me—I have a sense of re-

newed energy."

Camels give vou just enough "lift" by re-
leasing your latent energy in a natural
They contain finer, more expensive
tobaccos—both Turkish and Domestic—than

any other popular brand. Smoke one and see.

ZB T
z ISH & Do,
cr LEND EST
ISARETTES

Copyrixht, 1935, R. J Reynolds Tobacco Company, Winston-Salem, N. C.

Camels are made from finer,

more expensive tobaccos —
Turkish and Domestic—than

any other popular brand

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